Should Have Looked on Craigslist
by Akiru chan
Summary: Derek is rash and self-sacrificing, everything that will one day get him killed. Stiles doesn't want that. He's become too accustomed to a life with Derek Hale in it. To live without, well, it just doesn't seem to be an option. Or... The five times Stiles' expectations fall short, and the one time he's glad they do.


It's been awhile! This is probably the first thing I have written and finished in what feels like years! Granted, I started this a year ago. lol.

That being said, this was inspired when I got obsessed with buying purses on craigslist. lol. So hence this fic was born. I also took some creative liberty when describing the University of Oregon. I have no clue what I'm talking about, so take it all with a grain of salt.

Anyways, enjoy!

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**What You Didn't Know**

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_The five times Stiles' expectations fall short, and the one time he's glad they do._

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**1.**

Stiles always considered himself a connoisseur of the fantasy genre. When he was little, and his mother was still alive, they went to every midnight book release of Harry Potter. They would come home tired, but still managed to stay up all night to read. He still remembers his mother's voice as she read aloud in hushed excitement. It's one of the good memories Stiles allows himself to remember.

When Stiles turned eleven, he waited by the door so sure he was going to get his Hogwarts letter; delivered personally by owl. They had no mail slot, but that didn't matter, not in a world that promised the impossible through magic. It never came, and Stiles remembers wishing that things were a little less normal. That he was a little less normal. Why couldn't there be just a little bit of magic in the world? Maybe, that way, things wouldn't be quite so dull.

Stiles turns thirteen and he gets his first laptop. It's shiny and new, and he can't contain his excitement. His dad monitors his internet activity for that first month, but Stiles finds himself focusing his time into playing World of Warcraft. It becomes his escape from reality and a moment were he can pretend that he lives in a fanciful world where creatures of legend exist and that maybe his mother is still alive; magic would have saved her. Stiles focuses on leveling up his mage, and beating the crap out of Scott's attempts to master the game.

World of Warcraft is soon passed up for The Elder Scrolls and shows like Supernatural and Buffy. Stiles absorbs it all, learning all he can and wishing he could take a trip in the Impala. He'd even be up for travel via Angel express. It's just another form of apparition, wasn't it?

"I'd be a bad ass hunter," he tells Scott as they sit through an all-night marathon of season four. "That demon wouldn't have a chance." He watches as Sam kills Samhain with his mind alone. "I wouldn't even have to rely on creepy demon mind shit, just my wits!"

Scott snorts but doesn't contradict. "You'd be a bad ass hunter."

"Yeah, I would." Stiles smiles and they continue watching in relative silence.

It's five months later that Scott is bitten. Stiles' mind flies to werewolves and he teasingly jokes of the full moon. Wouldn't that be cool? He thinks. It would be just like becoming a werewolf and running around the woods and plains of Skyrim or playfully terrorizing the local town's people. Only this is Beacon hills, and this is Scott. Werewolves aren't real, and Stiles isn't so lucky as to find himself the hero in a fantasy adventure game.

Still, when he gets home he researches.

The claw marks on the back of Stiles chair speak volumes. His mind flies to all the rational possibilities. Scott got a scary cougar style manicure. That would make more sense than his best friend actually turning into a werewolf. The full moon is tonight and Stiles' stomach is twisting with excitement and a trepidation that he pushes down.

If Scott is going all furry tonight, Stile can't even fathom how cool that would be. It would change everything about the world he lives in. If werewolves are real, then why not vampires, witches, or even zombies? Stiles is even more miffed at never receiving his Hogwarts letter now. He bets his owl got taken down by a jet. It would be Stiles' luck.

Scott turns and werewolves are suddenly real. It's a real thing, not the made up fantasies of movies and video games. Stiles can't wrap his mind around it. He can't sleep, his adrenaline running too high and his mind buzzing from taking one dose too many of Adderall. Stiles stays up all night and researches. By morning he's pretty sure he knows everything there is to know about werewolves. In the grand scheme of things, he learns, very quickly, that he really knows nothing at all.

It would seem that all of Stiles' dreams have come true. He's living in a fantasy adventure; he's the hero, a regular Han Solo, and Stiles finds himself day dreaming about the movie they will one day make documenting his life, because werewolves are real and Stiles can't say it enough. Only there is no one he can say it to, because, for one, no would believe him. He wouldn't even believe himself if it wasn't for Scott and maybe Derek. Only, Derek is a separate issue altogether.

Then there are the hunters, and they are every bit the makings of the Winchesters. For the first time Stiles can't see Sam and Dean as the good guys. Stiles watches Dean kill a Kitsune in cold blood and his stomach turns. He sees Scott in Amy and has to turn off the TV. He doesn't watch it again.

Somewhere along the way Stiles has traded in dreams of hunting monsters to living in a reality where he's the one helping the monsters. Stiles will never be seen riding shotgun in the Impala, but he suspects the Camaro is just as good.

Stiles comes home pale and shaking. Scott tried to kill him. They've know each other since kindergarten and Scott tried to kill him. Nothing seems to fit right in Stiles' head. It doesn't make sense and seems so sickeningly wrong.

This wasn't how any of this was supposed to go. It was supposed to be easy. Yeah they would find danger, but it would just be a part of the adventure. Stiles isn't sure if he was terribly naive or just trying to ignore the horrors lurking just below the surface.

Stiles has his first panic attack in months, and ends up crying; curled up in a ball on his bed. Scott tried to kill him and nothing is right in this fucked up world. He wonders if perhaps he slipped into the twilight zone. Somehow, that seems too easy and simple. The world might be standing on its head, but Stiles knows nothing is ever simple or easy in life.

This fantasy adventure has turned into a horror, and Stiles fears he'll be the first to go. Never before has he wished for the norm of reality; the reality he once knew. Everything feels wrong in a way he hasn't felt since his mom died. He curls himself tighter and wishes he could wake from this nightmare.

He never wanted this.

**2.**

The first time Deaton hands over mountain ash, Stiles wonders what the hell he's supposed to do with this. Throw it into the Kanima's face and hope it falls into a sneezing fit? Stiles thinks he'll get his throat ripped out for his efforts. He takes it though, putting blind faith in the town veterinarian.

Truth be told, Stiles doesn't think it'll work. It's too farfetched, and makes even less sense than salt rings. That might be the case, but Stiles swallows his misgivings down and gets to work. He surrounds the warehouse with the ash, making one big ring. The whole time he thinks, 'This will work. This has to work,' and everything relies on Stiles pulling this off.

By the time he makes his full lap, Stiles has two tablespoons of mountain ash and a good ten feet left to cover. No matter how he spins the math and proper psychics, it's not adding up. It's simply impossible to cover the space he needs. Nothing short of magic will help him now.

So Stiles breathes deep and keeps walking. He has nothing left to loose, so he closes his eyes and chants. "This will work. I can do this. This will work." The last of the ash filters through his fingers and then it's gone. Stiles stops and can't bring himself to look down for a long moment.

One... two... three, he counts and sees the thick line of ash behind him. The circle is connected and he can just feel it in his bones. He knows that this will work. Excitement and pride washes over him. Stiles whoops, and he can't believe he just did magic. He can't even hide the pride he feels as Derek gives him a slap on the shoulder for his work.

When he gets home that night he makes it a point to write a formal complaint to Hogwarts. He knew he was magical. No way could he be this awesome and still be a muggle. Nothing was going to ruin this personal discovery for Stiles.

He smiles and whispers, "You're a wizard Stiles" in a poorly achieved British accent.

Deaton begins training Stiles the summer after the Kanima fiasco. It starts out slow and is nothing like what Stiles is expecting. Magic is part science and part belief. If the proper ingredients are available, all that is needed is the belief, the spark, and the belief becomes real.

Stiles can't make anything levitate. He can't transfigure a rat into a tea cup. Magic isn't what he expected, but it's not entirely disappointing either. What he can do, Stiles learns, is just enough to boot him out of the useless-human category. He proves that well enough when he helps to trap five Alphas within the remains of the Hale House.

They scratch and fight against the barrier made of mountain ash and wolf's bane. The more they fight, the more the wolf's bane saps them of their strength. Stiles wills it to weaken them, and so it does. He feels the power surrounding him; it leaks through his fingertips as he fights to hold on. Magic is not limitless; it comes from the essence of human life. Stiles has only so much to give, and like everything else, he gives it his all.

The Alphas howl and Stiles cripples to his knees. Someone is at his back, supporting him and calling his name. He doesn't bother to look. Knowing it's probably Scott. The last spark of strength is lent to the ash and it ignites in a blazing fire. The heat of it washes over Stiles as he collapses and watches with tired eyes.

The Hales House burns for the final time, crumbling down as the Alphas burn alive. Someone is lifting Stiles then, holding him tight in strong arms. He breathes in the scent of woods and sweat, and buries his nose into a firm chest. The smell is familiar and safe; Stiles mumbles his content and tries not to pass out.

"Idiot," Derek's voice grumbles from above, his arms tightening protectively around Stiles. A small part of Stiles wants to protest. The foreign feeling of being so carefully tended to by Derek's hands seems wrong and alien. He wants to twist from the hold, wants to get to Scott, to Lydia, and maybe even Allison, but Derek growls and Stiles stills. He's really to weak to put up a fight, so Stiles huffs and melts into Derek.

Vaguely, Stiles hears the others. Their worried voices rush into one continuous stream, and Stiles lazily waves their concern aside. "I'm fine," he slurs, and only contradicts the statement a moment later as his body seizes. His muscles contract painfully and he tries not to scream.

Everybody is shouting, and Derek is running. Stile can feel the chill of the wind whipping against his fevered skin. He whispers an apology as he retches on Derek's chest. It's dark and thick and Stiles can only hope that it's not blood. His tongue is heavy in his mouth and he can't say much more than 'sorry' if he even manages that much.

Derek hushes him, and Stiles passes out with the wild thump-thump of Derek's heart playing in his ear.

Stiles is not all powerful. He has magic, but it's not unlimited. He sits and forces himself to nod as Deaton lectures him. It's been only an hour since he's come too, and another five hours since he passed out in Derek's arms.

Everything is fuzzy still, and Stiles just wants to go back to sleep. Dawn has come and gone; he's been up all night. Deaton huffs and shakes his head. "You almost died tonight," he says. "You're new to this. Conjuring flames from the ash alone, you're lucky you've only been out hours."

The brain is a muscle, exercise it and broaden the imagination. It's the key to all magic. Deaton leaves with those words throbbing in Stiles' head. Like all muscles, the brain can only be toned so much. Stiles is not all powerful, and he might never amount to more than street-corner tricks.

Magic is just as deadly as it is useful, and Stiles life prepared him for nothing like it. This is magic he really never wanted, but he'll keep it. It's all he has, and given the choice, Stiles will kill himself ten times over if it means saving everyone he cares about.

He thinks that maybe he is sort of like Harry Potter, but can't help but feel cheated all the same. Stiles doesn't even get to experience the perks of casting jinxes. Jackson might deserves just a few.

Deaton doesn't let Stiles drive home. Of course Stiles complains. He needs to be home. It's nearing noon, and there is no doubting that his father is about to raise all hell in trying to find out where Stiles has gone. Calling home does little good when Stiles' phone is currently MIA, and he doesn't wish to explain why he's calling from the vet.

No one else seems to be near, Scott oddly absent. "I have to get home," he pleads, and keeps his tone level. Stiles learned long ago not to raise his voice to Deaton. The man could be very scary when he wanted to be.

"I know," Deaton says. "I'm not keeping you here; I just don't want you driving yourself."

Stiles is about to point out everything that's wrong in that sentence when the exam room's door opens and Derek walks in. He looks worn around the edges, and Stiles wonders if he's been here all night. There is still blood and grim caked to Derek's shirt, although his skin seems to be clean and unmarred. It's all just further proof that he hasn't bothered to leave the vet.

"Is Scott here?" Stiles has to ask. His mind can't wrap around the thought of Derek staying and Scott leaving. It's a flip-flopped version of how the world works. Maybe it was about time Stiles stopped trying to make sense of anything.

"He went home." Derek says. "His mom was worried."

There is a twisting in Stiles gut. He's not sure if it's jealousy, or something else, and even if it was, Stiles is unsure why he should be jealous at all.

"Okay, so..." Everyone is looking towards him, it makes Stiles uneasy. He slips from the cold metal table and lands on shaking legs. It hasn't occurred to him just how week he might be. The whole not driving thing is starting to make sense.

Derek pulls a familiar set of keys from his pocket and inclines his head to the door. How and when he got the keys to the Jeep, Stiles isn't sure. He knows they were in his jean's pockets, but isn't willing to wonder how they got out.

Stiles knows his cheeks are warming. Derek gives him a questioning look, but nether say a word as they head out of the vet and towards the desolate parking lot. "You don't need to drive me." Stiles tries to protest but gets shoved towards the passenger's side.

"I don't need to deal with you almost dying twice in the span of twenty-four hours. Once is enough."

"Maybe I should die, then I wouldn't annoy you anymore. That's a-" Stiles cuts himself off. Derek is staring down at him with such intensity that it seems to crawl under his skin. "Or not," he whispers and turns to face the front.

The engine grumbles and spurts to life and Derek peals out onto a back road. They are half way to Stiles' house before Derek shifts uncomfortably and speaks. "I wouldn't gain anything from you being dead. You're useful."

Stiles suspects that's as close to a compliment that he will ever get from Derek. He can't help the small smile that crosses his face. "Aw, I knew you cared."

"That might be too strong a word," Derek huffs. If Stiles didn't know Derek half as well as he did, he might have even thought it was a laugh.

"Admit it, you like me."

"There's nothing to admit."

"Liar!"

"Like you can tell." There is a teasing smirk to Derek's lips, Stiles is sure. He scoffs, and playfully hits Derek's shoulder.

"I hate you."

"No you don't."

"I do!" Stiles is too weak and tired to put up much of a fuss, but it's oddly relaxing to banter like this, and with Derek of all people. It's both foreign and familiar, and Stiles knows he will miss this once he's walking up the drive to his house.

"You're lying, and I can tell."

"Well," Stiles resigns. "I might like you just a bit." He demonstrates with his thumb and pointer, holding them just barely apart.

They pull up into Stiles' driveway without another word between them. All the lights are on, and they both hurry to get out of the Jeep. Derek's head cocks to the side, and he knows that he's listening for any sign of the Sheriff. Stiles can only imagine his father pacing the living room. There will be a trench soon enough.

"You better get going," Stiles says and wobbles on his feet.

For a moment Derek doesn't move, looking frozen on the spot. Stiles shivers under his assessing gaze and moves further up the drive and towards the front door. The movement seems to snap Derek from his thoughts and he too is moving back and putting more and more space between them.

"Get some rest," Derek says in parting. He walks to the sidewalk and Stiles watches him go. He's only gone a little ways before he's stopping and turning to look over his shoulder at Stiles. "You did good tonight." Derek is taking off and running the next moment, leaving Stiles standing alone in front of his house. His mouth is open in shock and he can't help but wonder if he's hallucinating. Actually, it would explain everything.

"Stiles!"

Stiles jumps and spins. The motion causes his head to spin and he falls flat on his ass. His dad is there the next moment, helping him up and leading them into the house.

"My feet just don't seem to like me right now."

His dad gives him a stern look and drops him on the couch. "Are you drunk?"

Oh, Stiles really wishes that were the case. Something even tells Stiles his dad might wish it were true as well. Coming home drunk after a night of partying would be so normal and juvenile. It's the perfect excuse too. Only Stiles was really out saving lives while destroying others. The thought turns his stomach and he thinks he might vomit.

He tries to stand up; his head continues to spin and his stomach lurches. Dry heaves wrack his body. There seems to be nothing in his stomach, and Stiles idly wonders when it was that he last ate. Stiles collapses back onto the couch, shaking and trying to remain conscious.

"Jesus, Stiles, how much did you drink?" His dad is brushing back the hair sticking to his forehead. It's still odd having it so long.

Stiles wants to tell his dad that, "no, he hasn't had one drink," but it's so much easier staying quiet. So Stiles allows his dad to assume what he wishes. There is no lying to be done, just blissful silence. Somehow, it hurts all the same.

As Stiles falls back into unconsciousness, he can't help but curse this magic that has fallen into his lap. He doesn't want another thing more to keep from his dad. It's just one more brick on this wall between them.

**3.**

It's the spring of Stiles' junior year that Lydia asks him out for coffee. There is nothing strange to be found in the request, and Stiles agrees. The months have brought them closer together, and Stiles sees Lydia as a good friend. He can't bring himself to hope for more, that dream seems to be too far out of reach now; even with Jackson out of both of their lives.

Friendship is more than Stiles hoped to ever have with her, so he is happy to settle with that. She smiles at him when he walks into the small coffee shop of the corner of Brooke and 6th. There are two coffees on the table, a soy latte for her and a regular black coffee for him.

"Thanks," he says as he sits. "You didn't have to-"

She waves him off, and he takes an appreciative sip of his coffee. "I know what you drink. Didn't see why I shouldn't just order for you," she states matter of factly.

"A lady shouldn't have to pay."

"Chauvinist," she chides and they both laugh.

It's nice how easy it is to be around her now. There are no pretenses. Stiles no longer goes out of his way to impress her, and, he thinks, she might respect him more for it.

They sit and talk about nonsense, and then some things of relevance. Stiles tries to keep away from the heavy things, mainly werewolves and the things trying to kill him. Lydia seems to appreciate the effort, and they pretend to be two normal teenagers sitting and having coffee.

"That new Nicolas Spark's movie is opening this Friday," Lydia says conversationally. "I hear it'll be one of the best."

"Are you going to see it?" Stiles downs the last of his coffee, and taps the empty cup on the table. He keeps up a nice rhythm before Lydia's glare has him stopping and pushing the cup out of reach.

"Are you busy Friday?"

Stiles snaps his head to Lydia. "Uh..." He's not sure what to say. "It's not really my-"

She cuts him off with a flip of her hair. "Pick me up at six. I expect dinner." Lydia stands, not bothering for an answer. Nothing short of a yes will do, and Stiles doesn't even hesitate to think that he could say no to her.

"Be on time," she says as soon as she outside. "I will not miss the previews."

Stiles watches her turn and walk back down the street. Her hips sway from side to side and he tries not to stare. The past few minutes seem like a blur and Stiles isn't sure what just happened there.

_'I think I just got tricked into seeing a chick-flick_.' He texts Scott as he's climbing back into his jeep.

_'Sucks for you, man_.'

'_Thnx_.'

It says something about Stiles' current relationship with Lydia, that he never even thought to hope that this was a date. Like an honest to god, dinner and movie date; complete with awkward first kiss on the doorstep.

He takes Lydia to the nicest dinner in town. She looks appraisingly at the building before shrugging her shoulders and walking in. Stiles held his breath the whole time, half afraid she would turn her nose up and demand to go home. It's usually her job to pick out the restaurant when they'd gone out in the past. Why she's changed things now, Stiles can't be sure.

They both order burgers and shakes. She cleans her plate, and Stiles thinks he might have fallen in love with her all over again. Everything is so achingly normal that it hurts. The full moon might be tomorrow night, but not once does Stiles think of werewolves.

When they leave the diner, they are in good spirits; smiles are plastered on both of their faces. The movie is slow and overly romantic and Lydia is crying by the end of it. "That was beautiful," she says.

"If you say so."

Lydia punches him in the arm, and it hurts more than he would have thought. It's easy to underestimate the power Lydia hides, both physically and mentally. He rubs at the sore spot, but doesn't stop smiling.

"You have no taste in movies," she huffs and flips her hair, it's all show.

"You're delusional." Stiles steps away from her next swing, but she catches him with a flick to the head. He's laugh and Lydia is just barely holding back her own giggles.

"I swear," she says as they walk back to the Jeep. "I associate with uncultured dogs." There is no heat to her words, just fondness.

"That's ironically fitting," he laughs, and then quickly amends. "Excluding me!"

The back to Lydia's is filled with a comfortable silence. The radio is a dull hum, which Stiles catches Lydia singing to off and on. He pulls into the drive and cuts the engine five minutes later; it's pushing past eleven, but it's a weekend.

Lydia goes to get out of the jeep and then pauses. "Well?" she asks.

"Well?" Stiles parrots, unsure of what he's supposed to be doing?

She rolls her eyes and looks far from amused. "Are you walking me to my door or not?"

Stiles tumbles from the jeep and hurries to open her door.

"Thank you," she says and walks on ahead of him. Stiles raises an eyebrow, not sure at what she's playing at. He follows her none the less, and waits beside her as she digs her keys out of her purse.

"I had a good time," Lydia says a moment later. "Thank you." Her words are so soft and shy that Stiles can't help but quirk and eyebrow. He's entirely too uncertain of the situation, and wonders what he's missed.

"Uh, I'm glad?" It's more of a question, but Lydia doesn't call him out on it. She just smiles and sways forward a moment, and then pushes fully into Stiles' space.

The kiss is short and sweet, just an innocent press of lips. Lydia leaves him frozen on her door step, locking the door behind her.

It's minutes later that Stiles finds himself again. His cheeks are burning and his lips dry. Stiles stares blankly at the door, shock written all over his face.

"Was this a date?" he mumbles to himself. "Did I go on a date with Lydia Martin?"

He drives home with those words floating across his mind, and the memory of the kiss close to his heart.

Monday is an experience. Stiles gets through lacrosse, econ, and chem. without anything seeming out of place. A few guys give him ambiguous and random high fives, but there is never much sense to be made with jocks.

The weekend has been put behind Stiles as a fluke. Lydia doesn't bother to call or text once, and Stiles isn't going to be the one to cave and call her first. So when lunch comes around, Stiles is ready to get back to his special brand of normal that consists of werewolves, magic, hunters, and whatever wishes to feast upon his skinny limbs.

Stiles knows something is off when both Scott and Isaac crowd him as soon as he sits down. "Why didn't you tell me?!" Scott crows.

"Finally scored Stilinski." Isaac smirks and Stiles can't help but feel overwhelmingly confused.

"I...umm... I... What?" Stiles stutters out some form of a response, but he's unsure how recognizable it is.

"Lydia!" Scott urgently whispers or well tries too. Stiles is pretty sure they have the attention of the nearby tables now.

"What about her?" Stiles hedges, not sure where this is going.

"How could you not tell me you two started dating?"

Well, Stiles honestly wasn't expecting that. "Were not." He hates how unsure he sounds.

"Dude, that's not what she's saying." Isaac looks as if he's trying not to laugh.

"I'm dating Lydia Martin. She's telling people she's dating me?" It's almost too much to believe. After years of pining and worshipping at her feet, and it's finally happening? Stiles isn't sure what he should feel, but he's pretty sure he might faint.

"I'm dating Lydia Martin," he says once more.

Scott slaps him on the back and grins. "You're dating Lydia Martin."

None of it seems real.

Lydia finds him between sixth and seventh period. She crowds him at his locker, looking finely put together in here heals and dress. "Are you free after practice?" she asks, but there doesn't seem to be a real question there. 'You will be free.' It feels like she's saying. Stiles just blinks, still thrown off by her sudden appearance and the rumors spreading amongst the student body.

"What's going on," he ends up saying. "With us?" Stiles adds when Lydia gives him an unimpressed quirk of her delicate brow.

She huffs and seems to drop all pretenses. "I thought you'd be thrilled. Of course, if you don't want to date me..." Lydia's words trail off, leaving Stiles open to agree or contradict. He can only flap his mouth like an idiotic fish.

"What am I ever going to do with you." Lydia seems fondly amused. The warning bell rings and she leans up to peck him on the cheek. "I'll be waiting for you after practice."

Stiles watches her leave. It takes him a moment to remember himself; he grabs his books and sprints after her a second later. AP US History is a new experience. He sits by Lydia, in the desk she kept open especially for him. Allison sits on her other side and give Stiles a little wave. He returns it with a timid smile.

"So, we're dating?" Stiles asks halfway through a lecture on Valley Forge. He's already done the reading, listening won't give him more than he's already researched for himself.

Lydia spares him a glance but seems to be trying to ignore him. It takes a moment of insistent staring on Stiles' part before she's huffing and scribbling something on a scrap of paper.

The note gets passed over as Mrs. Grimmson's back is turned, and Stiles hurries to unfold it.

'_Yes, idiot, we're dating_,' is scrawled in Lydia's neat cursive. A smile stretches itself across his lips and even Allison's quiet chuckles can't seem to sweep it off.

So, it was official. Stiles Stilinski was officially dating the one and only Lydia Martin. It seems like one of his plans was finally going smoothly. So, of course, Stiles can't help but be suspicious of it.

It takes a week before everything finally sinks in and Stiles allows himself to believe that this is real. Lydia is not possessed by a demon, nor is she under a spell. Inexplicably Lydia sees something in him, something deeper than friendship.

The week has been nice. There has been hand holding, stolen kisses, and things straight out of some teen romance novel. Stiles does not think he's quite as bad as Scott and Allison, but he might admit he comes close.

"You're smitten," Derek grumbles out like it's a bad thing. He's hunched over Stiles' computer, scowling through what looks like eBay. Stiles isn't even going to ask.

Stiles huffs indigently and denies. "I'm not smitten! I just appreciate a girl like Lydia."

Derek snorts.

"Watch it! You forget who's letting who use their computer. And, out of the goodness of my little heart." Stiles throws a pillow at Derek's shoulder, but otherwise leaves him to his Internet.

"You're smitten," Derek says with such surety that Stiles blanches and fumbles for words. "You missed tonight's meeting because Lydia wanted to, and I quote, 'bond over the notebook'"

"We cried together and had feelings and stuff."

Derek gave him a look. "I doubt that."

"It was beautiful!"

"Smitten."

Stiles screeches and smothers his face into his pillow; the one he did not throw. It never failed that Derek could crawl under his skin and poke at him like an insistent toddler. That's what Derek was, a toddler.

"Grow up," he groans out. "Buy your own damn computer and leave me alone."

For a few moments Derek is blissfully quiet, too quiet for Stiles immediate comfort. He peaks an eye over a puff of pillow and sees Derek staring him down. "Friday," Derek says, slow and careful. "The full moon. You're coming."

Stiles pales. "Umm... About that."

That might have been a growl. Stiles is pretty sure Derek just growled at him.

"I can't help it! Lydia wants to-"

"Then bring her with you. You know she's welcome. She came to enough of them before Jackson left." Derek pushes himself away from the computer. He looks a little wounded and perhaps a little uptight.

"She doesn't want to go!"

Silence settles over them. Derek sits back and watches Stiles with cruel amusement. "Never thought I'd see the day that Stiles Stilinski was tamed. Letting a girl tell you what to do?" He clucks his tongue and shakes his head.

"Fuck you!" Stiles yells, standing up and getting into Derek's space.

A twisted smirk that means nothing good slips across Derek's lips. "At least then you wouldn't still be a virgin."

Stiles snaps back in shock. "I... That's not... What?" His cheeks are red in anger and embarrassment. "How dare you!"

"I have nothing against Lydia," Derek starts slowly, backing up and trying to salvage the situation. "But you are smitten Stiles. Don't let her control you." Those are Derek's parting words. He's jumping out Stiles' window before anything else can be said.

Stiles goes to Derek's for the full moon. Lydia refuses and stays home. He tries not to think too much about it. Every knowing look Derek throws his way, Stiles ignores. Allison seems a little worried, but doesn't say a thing. Stiles is sure they are all thinking it. It's not hard to see now. Lydia is avoiding them, and anything werewolf related.

She can't be blamed. Lydia had it just as hard as any of them. Stiles won't push her into this. If she wishes to keep clear of the supernatural, then it is her choice.

Saturday Stiles meets Lydia at the cafe. "Everyone says hi," he greats, having just come straight from Derek's loft.

Lydia gives him a stressed smile. "Have you started on your chem. report?" She pulls some papers from her purse and unfolds them out onto the table.

The sudden change of subject throws Stiles off. "Not yet. We still have two weeks. I'll probably do it over Spring Break."

"Procrastinating will get you nowhere." She smiles and pushes the papers closer. "These articles might help."

Stiles eyes them, but doesn't reach out to take them. "You know Derek and Scott are heading to Oregon during Spring Break? We're trying to build better relations between neighbor packs. Derek said the Hale pack was once quite influential."

"There's no we about it," Lydia snaps. "It has nothing to do with us." She's flipping through more papers and scribbling in a small notebook.

"We're pack," Stiles defends. "It has everything to do with us."

"No, Stiles, it doesn't. We are human. We don't belong with werewolves." Her voice is a hurried whisper, scared of being overheard.

Something clicks and Stiles is frowning. "Does this have to do with Jackson?"

Lydia's whole body stiffens. "It doesn't." She's packing up her things and Stiles can only watch. "I need to head out."

"But you just got here!"

She leans down and kisses Stiles. "I'll see you later." The articles are once more handed over to Stiles and Lydia pointedly flicks her hand to them. "Read those. They'll help."

Stiles is left feeling uneasy.

The week after Spring Break is when everything falls apart. Dating Lydia was supposed to equal out to happily ever after. It was all a part of the bigger plan. Werewolves had shaken the very structure of Stiles life, but having Lydia seemed to be the spark of normality that he needed.

And wasn't it a punch in the gut that now, with Lydia's hand in his, nothing seemed right at all. There was nothing normal in this. Stiles felt as if he was walking around in a dream; only slipping back into reality when Derek pushed in through his window or Scott got himself into trouble.

"She's going to talk you out of it."

It's deja-vu. Derek sits at Stiles desk; eBay flashes on the screen. Stiles still isn't too sure what Derek is looking for; he might actually bother to ask tonight.

"I'll still go," Stiles says, but he knows he sounds unsure.

"Whipped," Derek mocks.

It hurts all the same as being called smitten, but Stiles suspects he deserves it. "I will!" He forces his voice to smooth over and harden. Lydia won't stop him this time.

"She's trying to push herself away from all of this, and take you with her in the process."

"I know, but she can't. It's not that easy." Stiles is sitting on the floor, papers fanning out around him. Most are in Latin, although a few look to be French or Spanish. He's been taking notes and referring back to one of many dictionaries stacked beside him.

There is the click-click of a mouse before Derek speaks. "It is that easy, and she's doing it."

"But I-"

"You," Derek points at him. "Don't want to let us go. It's not easy for you. Lydia, though, has already done it."

Stiles tries to think back to the last time Lydia bothered to talk to Scott, Isaac, or even Boyd. She doesn't even eat lunch with them, instead trying to get Stiles to sit with her in the school lawn. Lydia alienated herself a long time ago; not long after Jackson left.

"Jackson was the only one keeping her tied to the pack."

Derek nods and goes back to his shopping. "You're the only human she could relate to."

Stiles doesn't want to acknowledge what Derek might be implying. It hurts just a little too much. Instead he stands and looks over to see what exactly Derek is doing on Ebay. His curiosity finally gets the better of him.

"Couches?"

There is a listing for a black leather couch that Derek is intently looking over. Stiles knew the last couch in Derek's loft got smashed when Scott thought it was a good idea to unsuspectingly tackle Boyd. It was then that Derek issued the no rough housing rule.

"Dude, you're look for couches on eBay?" Stiles can't help but laugh. "Craigslist. Craigslist that shit you dork!"

Stiles takes control, and within the hour they have plans to pick up a couch for fifty bucks in the town over.

"And that," says Stiles. "Is how it's done."

The only thanks he gets is a punch to the shoulder.

"I'm not going Stiles."

It's far too hard to resist pulling his hair out at this point. "Why can't you just come to one meeting Lydia? We all miss you there. They're not that terrible."

Lydia herself looks far too close to losing her own cool. They'd been back at the cafe, sipping coffee late into the evening while working on homework. It seems to be the only place they see each other outside of school now.

"Drop it Stiles," she warns.

Stiles has stood up to a lot fiercer foes, Lydia can't compare. He stands his ground and pushes. "Why? Why can't we talk about this?"

"It's not important."

"Apparently it is if it gets you this ruffled. I'm tired of trying to keep these two parts of my life separate. I already have to do that where my father's concerned. I don't want to have to do it with you too!" He's breathing hard, and he knows they are getting looks from other customers and staff.

"I'm sorry I make your life so hard," Lydia snaps. "I'm just tired of dealing with the drama."

It's probably the closest to the truth that Stiles has ever gotten. He can roll with this. "Things are getting quieter. We've been establishing ourselves, reforming treaties with packs and it's going really well."

Lydia ignores him and taps away on her phone.

"Lydia, I'm not giving them up." She freezes at that, sending Stiles a cold glare.

"I don't expect you too." Stiles can hear the cold undertone in those words. He can hear the lie, no werewolf hearing required.

"But you do."

Lydia's lips stay firmly shut and she brushes off every urging to get her to talk. Finally Stiles caves and asks the one thing he's been dreading. "Why did you want to date me?"

The answer comes quickly. The words are stiff and planned; they are empty. "I thought it was time to give us a try."

"Don't lie to me," Stiles bites.

"Why do you care why? Isn't this what you wanted?"

Yes, Stiles wanted her, but not this, never anything like this. What they had was broken and founded on lies and fears. "I'm not going to run from this Lydia. You won't be able to take me away. I'm not like you."

She watches him for the longest moment, eyes wide and bright. "I know," she says and bows her head in a nod. "I know."

Stiles can hear the tears in her voice and he's pulling her into his arms before she can protest. Lydia is shaking and falling apart. Mumbled 'sorry's fall from her lips and she grips him tighter.

"I'll be okay."

"No," Lydia hiccups. "It won't. I just didn't want to be alone."

There are tears welling up in Stiles' own eyes, and he can feel the burn of stranger's eyes on them. He doesn't care what they might think. "You're not alone Lydia. You've never been alone. You just need to let us help."

She nods and presses her face into Stiles' chest. "I don't think I can. I'm so scared."

"You're fucking strong Lydia. You can do anything."

Lydia ends up sitting on Derek's new couch that night. She's welcomed back with open arms. Stiles can't help but smile. There is still an ache in his heart, knowing Lydia had used him, but he feels freer now. They might not be dating, but Stiles would like to think they are now closer as friends.

Halfway through the meeting Lydia reaches out for Stiles' hand. He holds her tight, and gives her all the comfort she needs.

**4.**

"Pessimist much?" Stiles says between bites of his hamburger. "Why would they want to rain terror down on us? Haven't they heard we're awesome?"

Derek is picking at his tator-tots and looking like this whole situation is beneath him. Sonic had been Stiles' choice, not Derek's, but there was no complaint as he pulled into the drive-in.

"We don't have the best track record."

Stiles might give him that. If something could go wrong, then it would. If something could kill them, then it would try. It was the shitty law they'd found hanging around all their heads. "They might just want to talk and hug it all out."

"No," Derek snaps.

"And see, that's why they'll try to kill us, because you can't man up and hug it out." Stiles swears he hears Derek laugh, but that's a long shot so he brushes it off. "Come on, man, just give them the benefit of the doubt."

The last of Derek's tots are finished off and he slurps indignantly at his slushie. Stiles wants to ask if werewolves get brain-freezes but he refrains. "You're not coming," Derek says.

It sounds more like a demand than any statement, and Stiles forces himself not to fight against it. "No," he says. "Dad's got me roped into father-son time."

Derek nods like he's pleased. The bastard probably is. One less human to worry about, even if Stiles has proven he's not weak. The last time a werewolf tried to pass Stiles off as the useless human, he took up permanent residence in a plot within the inner bowels of the preserve. Stiles hated cocky omegas.

"I'll come by tonight. Let you know what happens." It's Derek's little piece offering. He can probably smell the irritation rolling off Stiles.

"Sure, just make sure my dad is actually asleep. I really don't want to have to explain to him why I talk to myself." It was a month ago, if Stiles has it right, that his father confronted him about Stiles' late night chats. For the record, he thinks his dad bought a quarter of the bullshit tumbling out of his mouth.

They finish the rest of their food in silence, listening to the beats of Boston; Stile is going through a classic rock stage. At least Derek seems to approve for once. Stiles was sure he was going to lose his iPod when he began playing Lady Gaga on repeat last year.

Stiles starts his jeep without any prompting from Derek and pulls onto the main road. It's closing in towards four, and his dad is due home at six. "When is this meeting going down?" He asks, it's only out of curiosity and nothing else. It's not like he's going to try and sneak his way to it.

"You're not coming." Derek makes it sound so final, good thing Stiles knows better.

"I might could make the first half..." he ventures. Stiles thinks he might could escape the house on the excuse of having to pick up milk. He can only hope it works better than it sounds.

Derek huffs and shakes his head. He looks far too amused and Stiles isn't sure how he should feel about that. "Go with your dad, Stiles. We'll manage without you."

Stiles smiles. "Somehow." He parks next to the Camaro when they get to the loft.

"I'll call you if anything comes up," Derek promises.

"Don't do anything stupid."

As Stiles drives away he can't help but worry. Derek is rash and self-sacrificing, everything that will one day get him killed. Stiles doesn't want that. He's become too accustomed to a life with Derek Hale in it. To live without, well, it just doesn't seem to be an option.

They are sitting outside the Rosie's Diner in the Sheriff's patrol car. Stiles is finishing off his apple pie just as his father is getting halfway through his own. It's a treat, something special. Stiles isn't usually one to cave on his dad's diet, but needs to make his dad happy. Too much uncertainty hangs between them, but it leaves Stiles feeling as if he's paying for his dad's acceptance.

"I forgot how good this taste," his dad hums with approval. He had tried to talk Stiles into letting him get it a-la-mode, but Stiles had to draw the line somewhere.

"Better commit it to memory then." Stiles is smirking.

The sheriff grumbles about unappreciative sons, and goes to turn on Stiles. His fork wobbled in front of Stiles like some threat. "I think you forget who the father is here," he grouses.

Unperturbed, Stiles shrugs his shoulders and goes to try to steal a piece of his dad's pie. Stiles' fork gets intercepted and the sheriff quickly finishes the dessert off.

"I'm only looking out for your well-being."

"You have a funny way of showing it. A life without pie is just cruel."

They both laugh and relax back into their seats. The Styrofoam containers are packed back up into the bag to be tossed later.

"So," His dad begins after a moment. "How is everyone?"

Stiles shrugs. "Good, I think. Scott and Allison are good, if not tooth decaying sweet." He shudders. No one should have any right to be that sweet with one another in public. "And Lydia is still in Chicago visiting Jackson."

"They're back together?"

"Yup, true love right there." Stiles doesn't feel sad for it. It's better this way. He should have let Lydia go a long time ago. Still, he was grateful for the time he was allowed to pretend they might be something more.

His dad pats him on the shoulder. "There will be others." Yes, there will be others. Just how many more will there be that can accept the life Stiles lives? Will he even end up with a human? Could he date a werewolf? Stiles truly doesn't have the time to worry about it.

"I'm going to toss this." He reaches down to snag their trash.

Stiles is halfway back to the cruiser when the sirens flash on and his dad is flagging him down. "Get in, quick!"

He doesn't need to be told twice, folding his body in through the cracked door and falling into the passenger seat. The car is rolling out of the parking lot before Stiles can get his seatbelt fastened. It doesn't take a genius to know his dad got a call. He wouldn't be driving like a bat out hell if that wasn't the case.

"I'm dropping you off at home first," his dad says in his no nonsense voice. "And don't argue with me on this."

"That bad?"

Usually his dad would cart him along if it was something minor. Car accidents, burglaries, and things that didn't give off the vibe of present danger. Knowing that something potentially hazardous is going on perks Stiles interest.

His dad shrugs off his question, trying to down play the situation. "It's nothing Stiles.," he says and pulls onto their street.

"Just give me something! Otherwise I'm going to be forced to snoop." Stiles tags on a charming smile. For what it's worth, it does work.

"It's probably just a gang fight."

That doesn't ease Stiles' interest. "A gang fight? What was reported?"

"Just a disturbance at the lower end of the warehouse district, it's noth- dammit Stiles let me go!"

Stiles' fingers curl tighter into his dad's sleeve. "Can't you send someone else to check in on it?" A heavy feeling of dread settles deep in Stiles' stomach. He knows what is happening, what disturbance must have been called in. Stiles thinks of the negotiations going south, and his father can't go there. Not now.

His dad finally shakes him off and pulls into the driveway. Stiles takes the opportunity to check his phone, seeing a few missed texts from Scott; none of them are calming. He sends a quick one back, warning them of his own situation.

Stiles phone chirps instantly, and he wonders if Scott has been waiting on a reply. The message is short and simple, if not terribly misspelled. He can only assume it was written with haste.

Don't let him come, is more or less what it says and Stiles' heart thumps terrified within his chest. His dad is pointedly looking at him, waiting for Stiles to leave and go inside. Stiles, unfortunately, cannot do that.

"You can't go," he says again, grabbing back onto his dad's sleeve.

"I have to, Stiles, now let me go and get out!"

There isn't anything Stiles can say to keep his dad here. He can't tell him the truth, that's never been his to give. There is absolutely nothing that can be done, short of faking a heart attack.

Stiles is helpless as he is forced out of the cruiser. His dad makes a point of pushing him towards the door. "I'll be fine. It's probably nothing." His dad waves a goodbye and races down the road, sirens blaring.

One more text chimes on Stiles' phone, this one's from Lydia.

_Whatever you do, don't let your dad out of your sight. We're taking care of this, but we don't need a distraction. _

"Shit." Stiles is in his jeep and tearing off after his father without a second thought.

Stiles takes a back route, making him only a minute ahead of the sheriff. He can only slip from the jeep before he's hearing the sirens. There will be multiple lectures for this, Stiles is sure. He can practically feel his dad's confusion and anger as the patrol car rolls next to the jeep.

His dad is out of the car and looking furious before Stiles can really prepare himself for what he might have to do.

"What the hell? I'm going to ignore the fact that you somehow got here before me when I was booking 70, and simply get to the point of why you're here." Stiles backs up as his dad gets into his face. He can't meet his eyes and just slowly shakes his head.

"I-" Stiles snaps his mouth as a low howl fills the night air. He spins around looking panicked at the building behind them. They have a good football field long space between them, but it's still far too close.

There is shock his dad's eyes and he pulls his gun and tries to walk around Stiles. He doesn't get a foot before Stiles is stepping in front of him.

"Don't," Stiles says. "What's happening in there; it's not your concern." He's sweating and panicked, but he has to do this.

"What are...?" John pauses and looks towards what building behind Stiles. He looks confused and then his face hardness into stern disappointment. "You—"But he can't seem to voice just what he's thinking. Stiles can fathom a guess; he can see it in his father's eyes. John is putting two and two together and setting Stiles in the middle of it all.

"Please dad, just turn around and go home." Stiles is pleading, knowing he doesn't have a single word in his vocabulary that will make his father leave him. He hears the bang of one of Allison's exploding arrow heads, and curses every god he knows. "Just please go!"

"What have you gotten yourself into?" John's voice is broken. Stiles hasn't heard his father's voice so lost since his mom died. Something dies within Stiles and he feels the heat of tears filling his eyes.

The chaos inside the warehouse grows louder and louder, the roars and wines of wolves Stiles does not recognize fill the air and it gives him some comfort. It seems they are winning, while Stiles loses his own battle just feet away. Stiles shakes his head and pushes his dad back when he tries to move past Stiles. "You won't believe it," he says, gripping tight to John's shirt. "You won't believe any of it."

"I already can't believe it." The look he settles on Stiles is so full of disappointment that Stiles feels his own pained whine vibrating in his throat.

"You have to trust me," Stiles pleads. "I know I'm a shit son, I know! You just have to trust me this once and know that you need to just walk away from this. You'll be happier not knowing."

"Dammit Stiles, what they hell are you involved in? I can't even… all those murders… all those crime scenes you-" This time John takes a step away from Stiles. "Have you… What are you involved in." He's looking at Stiles now like he's never quite seen him before. It's a look Stile has never seen directed towards him and it's tears him apart.

Another howl fills the night and Stiles breaks. In all his imaginings of this moment, it's never quite like this. Telling his father the truth would be a calm affair. Stiles would sit him down on the couch, a tumbler of whisky already filled and with Scott on speed dial for when his dad need proof. But here Stiles stands, near tears, and about to layout the biggest of secrets.

"I'm sorry," he says, words hurried. "I wanted to tell you, but I couldn't. It wasn't safe back then, and I had no right to tell you. It wasn't mine to tell."

"Spit it out Stiles!"

"Werewolves." It's out, in the open, between them. "It's always been werewolves."

A soup of emotions flow past John's eyes. Confusion morphs into disbelief before he settles on furry. "Don't you dare Stiles. Don't fuck with me on this!"

"I'm not… I'm not fucking with you. I'm telling you the fucking truth!" Stiles is screaming, irritation and guilt getting the better of him. He really doesn't have time for any of this. There is a greater need boiling up within him to be there with his pack and to fight alongside them. "Werewolves are real!" Another howl just seems to add to his words, but it doesn't seem to convince his father.

"Is it drugs," he asks. "Are you on drugs?"

"Why can't you just trust me on this? I wouldn't lie to you, not about this."

"But everything else? All you've fed me is lies Stiles. You can't expect me to…"

"I can, and I will because this is the truth! My pack is in there trying to—"

"So you are in a gang!"

"No! That's not even the point; Werewolves—"

"Aren't real! I'm not going to allow you to make me believe otherwise."

"Mom would have believed me." And just like that silence consumes them. Stiles can't look at his dad, keeping his head hung down low. His hands are clenched in fist and Stiles can't quite catch his breath. The pause only lasts a moment before John is forcefully shoving Stiles out of the way.

His gun is drawn, and he ignores Stiles every bit of the way.

"Dad! Don't!" Stiles tries to grab his dad, pulling him back and taking him home. Maybe they could forget about all of this. Stiles would even be willing to blame the whole thing on drugs. It would make more sense than the truth John would soon tumble into. Seeing a fully transformed werewolf face to face will leave his father with little doubt.

They are feet away from one of the large receiving doors when the thin metal pushes out and bends with a force. There is growling and whining filtering through as the whole door bends into itself before giving way. Derek rolls from the building, blood splattered and fully transformed. He's as big as a small horse, all fierce with his snapping jaws.

Stiles has the sense to pull his dad back. He goes easily, too shocked to protest. They move just in time as the rival alpha throws himself at Derek. They gnash their teeth and snap at each other's throats.

"What…What the hell?" John looks on in morbid shock. He is now clutching tightly to Stiles, fist going white in their grip.

"Werewolves," is all Stiles can say as he pulls them to a safer location. He chances a glance inside to see Scott and Isaac taking down what seems to be the last of the betas. That leaves Derek with the desperate and already beaten alpha. In Stiles' experiences, that is never a good combination.

Luckily Derek still has the power of his pack to back him up, and he ends the fight with a wet bite to the throat. The alpha gurgles and tries to fight Derek off, but Derek flicks his head hard to the side and the alphas neck snaps before the entirety of his body goes limp. Derek drops him then, throws his head back and howls.

The relief Stiles feels is short lived. He has, at some point, let his father go, moving closer now to check over Derek. There is so much blood and he can't help but worry. They both move towards one another, being drawn to the other's comfort. Derek is within touching distance when he suddenly stops. The hair on his back rises and he growls low and feral.

Stiles stiffens, thinking of a beta having alluded them until this point. He turns slowly and is shocked to see his dad, standing calm and firm, gun drawn and pointed right at Derek's head.

"Dad, no… this isn't"

"Get away from it Stiles!"

"No, Derek's not dangerous. He's—"

"He just tore an animal's throat out. He's not a pet."

Stiles can see that his father is scared. His eyes are wide and when Stiles looks closely he can see the shaking grip he has on his gun. Law enforcement has taught John how to fight past fear, but Stiles can still see the little signs.

"He's not an animal!"

Derek moves closer then, trying to put himself between Stiles and a perceived threat. It doesn't matter that this is Stiles' father. Stiles has learned long ago that instinct rules Derek when he takes the full form of a wolf, and Stiles doesn't have the time to talk him down and reason with him. John's finger is already moving, curling into the trigger and pressing it down.

There is little time to think things through and Stiles' own instincts flood him. Too many times has Stiles seen Derek brought down with a bullet. It doesn't matter if the bullet in John's gun is wolf's bane free; Stiles does not have time to formulate rational thought. He's in front of Derek before he can't think better of it.

The gun shot echoes in Stiles' ears, followed by the blooming pain in his side and his father's terror filled scream. Stiles hits the floor, mind numb with pain. He barely registers the warmth of Derek at his side, alternating between growls and whines. His dad is somewhere to his right, Stiles can hear him calling his name. Blood is wet and sticky on his side, Stiles doesn't want to think how much he's losing.

"Stiles!" Derek is suddenly there, human and naked, but there and looming over him. Stiles tries to sit up, his vision blurry and his body thrumming with a sensation he can't quite place. Pain is still there, but the cold grip of unconsciousness is fighting to take hold. "Stay with me Stiles!"

"Get him in the car!" That's his dad, Stiles recognizes. He can manage a moment to laugh at the fact that all it took was Stiles to get shot for John to warm up to Derek. To understand he was just trying to protect Stiles; or something like that. Stiles thinks he's coming in and out of consciousness at this point, nothing makes sense. Scott and Lydia are suddenly there; his head perched on Lydia's lap. He's not sure how he got there, or where they came from, but Stiles thinks he gives her a smile.

Stiles doesn't know if she smiles back, all he remembers after that is darkness.

The first thing Stiles hears is the beeping. It's an insistent sound and all too familiar for comfort. He knows what it is even before he opens his eyes. Every beep marks the beat of his heart and at least Stiles can relax knowing he's truly alive. Still, the thought of being in a hospital makes his skin itch and his body tense. This place holds nothing but sad memories and death.

Stiles forces himself to open his eyes and see the room around him. The walls are a warm neutral and lined with machines; one being the annoying heart monitor in the corner. There is no one there, the chair beside the bed is empty, and the door firmly closed. He's not sure who he would expect to be here.

Scott maybe? Derek? It hurts to think his dad probably doesn't want a thing to do with him, or how to even handle a situation like this. He has put his dad in a terrible situation, not only opening his eyes to the existence of werewolves, but also piling up the guilt his dad must be feeling for shooting Stiles. It doesn't matter that Stiles knows he was an idiot for jumping in front of a gun, the fact still remains that John pulled the trigger.

His side burns as a reminder. It's the first time Stiles has been shot, and he wonders how Derek can handle it as much as he does. The healing thing must help, but that still does not diminish the initial pain. Stiles leans back into the bed, and tries to ignore the ever present beeping. He tries to find it calming, but all he can remember is the flat ring that it can make. Suddenly, the beeping isn't so bad.

The door opens a few minutes later and Melissa McCall walks in. She looks pleasantly surprised to see him awake. "It's about time," she says. Stiles can already pick out the forced brightness of her voice and too tight smile. "We were all worried." Her smile seems more sincere as she says that, but Stiles still gets the feeling that things are still twisted and frayed.

"Can't keep me out for long," he jokes, but his voice is harsh with disuse and the words come out croaked and wrong.

"That's proving to be a good thing."

She comes and checks over his vitals and promises to go fetch him something light to eat and drink. Stiles learns that he's been out for only two days, and has under gone two surgeries. Which explains why his entire side feels like it has been ripped open. The bullet ruptured something, Stiles doesn't really bother to listen, not when his injuries are the least of his current worries.

Thirty minutes later Mrs. McCall comes back with a tray of soup and a glass of water. The soup looks like chicken broth, but Stiles doesn't bother to complain because Scott is there, sticking his head into the room and smiling that goof smile of his.

"Hey," he says. "Thought you'd never wake up."

"Seems to be the general consensus."

Scott invites himself into the room and settles himself on Stiles' bed. Melissa shakes her head but doesn't tell either of them off. Stiles is thankful for that. He needs the company. They sit in silence as Stiles sips his soup and forgoes the water. He wants to ask Scott what's happened since that night two days prior, but Stiles can't find the courage to open his mouth.

"He's okay," Scott says after a moment, as if he knows just what Stiles is thinking. "Your dad, he's okay… Derek too."

"They're not—"

"Your dad had work. He wanted to be here." Stiles wishes he could really believe that. But, he remembers the look in his dad's eyes, like he couldn't believe that the boy in front of him was his son. Stiles thinks his dad wants very little to do with him right now, and he can't blame him. Stile has lied far too many times about too many things. John would be right to assume that Stiles is not the same son he knew three years ago. Sometimes Stiles can't recognize himself in the mirror.

"Yeah, I'm sure he did." Stiles forces a smile, but focuses on finishing off the soup.

There's silence for a moment. Scott fiddles with the hem of the bed sheets, looking far too uncomfortable. "Derek's here," he says after a bit.

Stiles perks up, surprised and a little confused. "Why?" he asks. Derek owes him nothing. He doesn't need to be sitting in a hospital waiting room. The image doesn't even fully register to Stiles. Derek isn't the type to play the worried and concerned Alpha. Stiles never doubts that Derek cares for him, but he can't expect to see Derek sitting bed side either.

"He's worried."

"He worries about a lot of things, doesn't mean he's going to decide to be normal and hang out in a hospital waiting room and play the concerned friend," Stiles quips.

Scott's face turns into a frown. "I guess not, but he did. I—" he trails off, looking suddenly unsure. "I think he blames himself for what happened."

"Wasn't his fault." And it wasn't. Stiles doesn't blame him for anything. No one was really to blame, just the shitty hand Fate likes to deal. Trust the first time Stiles gets sent to hospital because of supernatural affairs, it's because he thought it was a good idea to jump in front of his father's gun.

"He doesn't seem to think so."

Stiles sighs deep and heavy. He's only been awake for an hour and he doesn't feel like dealing with this shit. But it needs to be done. One thing at a time and Derek seems like the easier hurdle to jump. Stiles can't bring himself to face his dad just yet.

"Go get his moping ass. I'll set him straight."

Scott looks like he might argue, but nods anyway. He goes quietly, looking back at Stiles as he reaches the door. "It'll be okay," he says, and then leaves Stiles to think just how not okay everything really is.

Derek doesn't come until visiting hours are over. It's late and Stiles has resigned himself to being ignored. He supposes he should have expected Derek to pull the creeper act. After spending the day in a hospital waiting room like a normal person, he has to revert back to his stalker ways.

"Did Scott get lost on his way to fetch you," Stiles says when he spots him hovering in the doorway. "Or did it take you this long to decide if you wanted to bother to come and see me?"

Silence greets Stiles and he can't say he's surprised. Derek has been more open and chatty in the past year, but events such as these seem to revert him back to the emotionally stunted man that he once had been. He does move from the door, closing it, and comes to sit on the chair by Stiles bed.

"You're an idiot," Derek says at last.

Stiles manages to crack to true smile. "Only sometimes."

Derek snorts and shakes his head. The silence that follows is light and lacking any awkwardness that might have been there before.

"It's not your fault," Stiles finally says after a moment. "I shouldn't have… it was stupid"

"No, you shouldn't have, but… Thank you." Derek squeezes Stiles' hand and doesn't let go. The touch is new and different but not unwanted. There is comfort there that Stiles would never have known to expect. His hand is warm and his body feels relaxed. Stiles smiles and snuggles down into the thin bedding.

"Next time don't growl at my dad when he has a gun pointed at you," Stiles whispers, as he falls back into a dreamless sleep.

The second time Stiles wakes, he instantly wishes he could pass out and ignore the storm brewing around him. Derek is still in the chair next to the bed, Stiles' hand clamped down in the soft leather of Derek's jacket. In the door way stands John, looking unsure and imposing all at once.

"Dad," Stiles coughs. He releases Derek and tries to sit up. A warm hand presses down on Stiles' shoulder ceasing his movements, and then Derek is there resituating Stiles' pillows and then helping him to sit up once more.

"You're awake," his dad says, his eyes intent on the interaction going on in front of him.

Stiles sends his dad a cautious smile. "Apparently you can't keep me out for long."

The smiles isn't returned and John doesn't make a movement to come further into the room. Instead he backs away. "Heal up quick," he says, but his voice sounds hollow. John's gone before Stiles can force himself to call him back.

"He'll come around," Derek says after a moment.

It's then that Stiles needs to know what happened. He can only remember fragments of that night. Odds and ends of what now feels like a dream. Stiles looks up into Derek's eyes, pleading for some form of understanding. "Tell me," he says. "What does he even think… Of all of this?" Stiles can only expect the worse. Does his father think he's a serial killer? Some twisted psycho finding pleasure in the violence that comes from living this life? The truth is so much more though. Stiles kills because he has too. He does what he does to keep the people he cares about safe. It's only for that, that Stiles finds it within himself to draw blood; to take life.

"He's scared, Stiles. Confused… Angry." It's all the things Stiles never wanted his father to be. He wants to tell Derek he's wrong, that he doesn't know his father well enough to pick those things out, but Stiles has seen those same emotions so easily displayed on John's face just moments before. "It's going to take him time."

"What if he can't accept it? What if he can't accept me?"

"He will," Derek assures.

"But he won't! This is too much—" Stiles cuts off in a sob. He can't fathom losing his father. He can't. Knowing that he only has himself to blame is just too much and he crumples forward into Derek. "I can't lose him. I don't have anyone else!"

Strong arms wrap themselves around Stiles and hold him, tight and comforting. Derek hushes him, whispering little words into his ears. It's far too intimate for what is considered normal between them, but Stiles needs this. He clutches at Derek, threatening to never let him go.

"I don't want to be alone," Stiles cries, heavy and wet into Derek's grey Henley.

"I'm here," Derek says. "I'm here."

"You should have told me."

It's been three days since Stiles got released from the hospital. It's been two weeks since the incidences of that night. It's taken that long to bring Stiles to this point; sitting down in the living room and talking things out with his dad. They haven't spoken more than a handful of words till now, Derek keeping Stiles company more often than not.

Stiles shifts nervously in his seat. "I couldn't. It wasn't my secret to tell, and I didn't want you involved in any of this. I was trying to keep you safe." They are nothing but pointless excuses. Stiles knows this, his dad knows this. Every time Stiles thought to tell his dad, he would default to the same excuses. It's a vicious cycle and now, it seems, Stiles is paying the price.

"I had a right to know! I could have helped!"

"That's exactly why I didn't want you to know. I can't allow you to deal with this mess. You have no idea what you're dealing with."

"And you do? You expect me to let you deal with all of this."

"Yes," Stiles says.

His dad downs a shot of whisky and curses.

"You've killed people?" John asks like he doesn't want to know the answer.

Stiles pauses, sensing a bad road of conversation but unable to turn back. "Yes," he says again.

"Dammit, Stiles… you're—" John takes another shot, allowing his words to be drowned in liquor. He can't look at Stiles. Not right now, and Stiles won't blame him for it. He doesn't even want to ask what his dad was going to finish that sentence with. Stiles thinks he might know, and it makes him sick.

"Werewolves? Just werewolves?"

Stiles thinks back to the time a hunter caught Isaac, ready to plant a bullet right to his temple. He remembers Isaac's wide, fearful, eyes and regrets nothing of what he had done. There was something almost satisfying about using his magic to steal the air from the hunter's lungs. Stiles can still remember his final gasp as he crumpled to the ground, leaving Isaac alive and well.

"No."

John pales and pushes the whiskey away. It seems as if he can't even bring himself to stomach it. "Other monsters then? Not humans?" He seems hopefully and Stiles feels his heart clench.

He can't bring himself to voice the truth, not this time. It doesn't much matter; the silence and the look on Stiles' face seem to say all that John never wanted to know. There's a stiff tension in the air, neither Stilinski moves, nor dare they breathe.

It's Stiles who cracks first. He can see the look in his father's eyes, it borders on disbelief and resentment. That is not a look that has ever been placed upon Stiles. It was reserved for criminals, murders. Killing is not something Stiles enjoys; he's not a murder. He does what he does to keep people safe. Stiles wants nothing more than to explain.

"I didn't have a choice!" Sobs crack and grate at his voice. Stiles doesn't even realize he's crying. Warm tears track down his cheeks. They feel scalding, burning a trail into his skin. "I didn't…"

John stands and moves out of the room without a word. He's headed for the stairs, not looking back. Every inch of him is tense and Stiles just wants to reach out and force him to understand. Things can't end like this, not with so much left unsettled. Stiles has lost his mother; he refuses to lose his father as well.

"Dad," Stiles calls, voice filled with pleading. "Dad, please."

A step falters, but John does not turn to look at his son. His own voice is thick with emotion, and, Stiles thinks, maybe that's some hope to hold on to. "I want you out of my sight. I can't look at you right now." He's up the stairs before Stiles can fully crumble to the floor.

Derek holds him as Stiles lets himself fall apart. The wound at his side throbs but it's not close to the agony he feels emotionally. Stiles left his house, not knowing what else to do. His farther made it clear he didn't want him there. There is little sense to be made as to why Stiles found himself at Derek's door, but he thinks he made the right choice.

"It's a lot for him to accept," Derek soothes. This isn't the first time Derek has given comfort to a pack member, but this is a first for Stiles. He clings to Derek like a life line, not caring how weak it might make him seem. The fact is, Stiles knows he's weak. He's at his weakest, and it's here with Derek that he feels his safest.

Choking back another sob, Stiles shakes his head. "He thought I was a murder."

"He doesn't think that."

But he does, Stiles has seen it in his eyes. The worst part is, Stiles can't blame his dad at all. Deep down, he knows there were things they could have done to save some of the lives they took. Stiles knows far too well that he could have immobilized that hunter just as easily as he killed him. When had killing been the go to solution? In a world where it's kill or be killed, Stiles guesses it's just a natural reaction.

"We'll go talk with him tomorrow; the two of us. We'll make him understand," Derek says, like it will be that easy. And, maybe, it will be. Stiles has little hope for any good coming out of the encounter, but he's willing to trust Derek's judgment. What else does he have at this point?

They don't speak again after that. Derek hold Stiles, both of them curled on the couch. Stiles feels warm and safe. Not for the first time he wonders how things came to this point between them. It's nice, he thinks. For a moment Stiles allows a small smile to rest on his lips. It stays there until he falls asleep.

Looking back, Stiles really should have expected this. It's probably the cliché of his life. A pack of viral wolves can never be successfully wiped out. A vengeful survivor always turns up eventually. It just so happens that this time, it chose to make its grand appearance in the living room on the Stilinski residence.

"Dad," Stiles yells, seeing his father bleeding and held tightly in place by sharp claws.

The beta growls, eyes flashing gold between Derek and Stiles. She looks rabid, unhinged and like a cornered animal. There is nothing within her eyes that give Stiles the impression of human thought. Lacking her humanity makes her all the deadlier.

"Let him go," Derek roars, moving forward till John gasps as a claw sinks in too deep.

A fresh trail of blood flows from his neck and Stiles curls his hands into a tight fist. He thinks of how much he wants to kill this beta. How dare she touch his dad. How dare she!

Magic turns in the pit of Stiles stomach. He can feel it rolling through his body, tingling in his fingertips. There are so many things he could do to her; so many ways for her to die. Looking at his dad, Stiles wonders if he can even bring himself to do it. What would his dad think, seeing his only son mercilessly take a life? It would only further cement what idea's John might have already allowed to take root.

Another cry leaves his dad's mouth as the beta's claws rack across his hip. A decision is made in a heartbeat. Screw whatever John might think of him, Stiles would rather have him alive and well. There was never any really choice to be made.

Stiles lets the magic go, his hand clutching tight to Derek's bicep as he tries to keep himself grounded to the world around him. The air around the beta feels tangible and thick; Stiles grabs onto it and pulls. He pulls it all away from her, dragging precious oxygen from her lungs. She chokes and claws at her own throat, trying to remove a threat that's not even there.

Minutes pass as the beta thrashes and clings to life. It's a slow death, and John watches it in horror and disbelief. Stiles falls to his knees as the last bit of life drains from the beta and she lays lifeless on the floor. The room is swathed in silence, no one daring to speak in the wake of what's just occurred.

Derek looks pleased but concerned; he kneels next to Stiles, rubbing gently at his back as Stiles regains his breath. It's john who first stirs, looking over to his son. "What… what did you do?" Stiles flinches from the words, but doesn't back down.

"I saved your life," he says, firm. "I killed her before she killed you. I'm not proud of it, but I won't take it back… Or any of it."

"That's not—" John pauses, rethinks his words and then nods. "Yeah, okay… Okay, Stiles. I know."

John is reaching out for Stiles then, pulling him out of Derek's grasp and yanking him into a tight hug. Stiles cries into his father's shoulder, hanging on tight, fingers digging into John's back. They don't part for many moments, too scared to let go and loose one another.

"I'm sorry, so sorry," Stiles says, still wiping at his eyes.

There are tears in John's as well, but he leaves them there to dry on his cheeks. "No." He shakes his head. "I'm sorry too, I shouldn't have…"

"I deserved it, I did."

"Stiles," his dad admonishes, but doesn't correct him. Stiles thinks that they still have a lot of ground to cover, and maybe too many things to ever possibly fix between them. Stiles is not the son John once knew, and he'll never be that again. It's something they both must come to terms with.

This is still something better than what Stiles had hours ago. He can live with this, it's better than not having his dad at all. The thought brings a smile to his face and he pulls his dad in for another hug, all the while one hand searches out the denim of Derek's knee and settles there; he keeps them all connected, and Stiles can only feel grateful.

**5.**

The majority of the summer is spent at Derek's loft. More often than not it's only Stiles who hangs out and uses Derek's television and fully stocked kitchen. Derek's never voiced any discontent to having Stiles there, so Stiles never worries if he might be intruding. If Derek doesn't like something, he's never silent about it for long.

Scott gets thrown out a week into July. Breaking a second couch in the course of a year seems to be where Derek draws the line. No one says much on the incident, Stiles was miraculously at home when it happened. Lydia tells the majority of the tale, which involves Scott, Jackson, and a X-box controller. Stiles can imagine, and he really does wish he'd been there. If only to see Jackson crushed beneath the remains of Derek's couch.

Jackson's only been back since May, but the pack seems to have accepted him back with open arms. Stiles won't admit this out loud, but he thinks things just weren't the same without the douche. Lydia seems more put together as well, and that makes Stiles happy.

"Maybe you should just invest in beanbags?" Stiles calls from the living room. "They're cheaper!"

Derek's sitting at the kitchen table scrolling through sale pages again. At least this time he's dumped eBay for Craigslist. "You want to clean them up when someone rips them to shreds?" Derek calls back.

"Nope." Stiles pops the 'P' and goes back to playing Oblivion.

He gets through his quests, pumps his fist in the air, and saves. Isaac is going to be furious when he finds out. Stiles is making tracks here, Isaac needs to hurry and catch up. "You know, I'd rather you hurry and settle on a damn couch sooner rather than later." The loft's floors are sealed concrete, cold and hard. Stiles wiggles his butt, and winces as he puts pressure on his tailbone.

"Buy your own couch then!"

Stiles brings over two beanbags the next day. He sets them down where the couch would go and watches as Derek glares at them. "They're black," Stiles says. There is a big grin on his face, and he feels slightly diabolical for reasons he's not even too sure of. "And, faux leather."

"That's not a couch." Someone seems to have acquired brilliant deduction skills. Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Really? Then I was taken advantage off. Will you fight for my virtue?"

Derek cuffs the back of Stiles' head and situates himself in one of the oversized beanbags. "It'll work, for now," he says. "You're still cleaning them up when the others destroy them."

Damn straight they will work for now! Stiles falls into the other beanbag, lacking any grace Derek sported moments ago. This beats sitting his ass on the floor. "I'm amazing, just admit it."

Cartoon Network pops on as Derek powers up the television. He quickly surfs through a few channels before settling on college football. None of the teams are recognizable to Stiles, being more of a professional football fan himself, but he enjoys the back ground noise all the same. Derek doesn't bother addressing him for a moment, letting Stiles sulk within his own question.

"Would be amazing if you actually brought a couch."

Stiles blanches and thrust a finger in Derek's face. "Lies!" he cries.

"Again, I marvel how you think you can tell."

"You have a tell." Stiles eyes Derek intently as if he's looking for it.

An amused smirk crosses Derek's lips and he shakes his head, mostly in disbelief. "Do I now?"

Grimly, Stiles replies, "You do, you do."

"Care to enlighten me?"

"Oh I will," Stiles says. His face is the image of seriousness. There is not even the twitch of a smile on his lips. "Once I figure it out."

Derek's face falls flat and he just looks at Stiles for a moment. His brows are drawn together in confusion for only a moment before his whole body shakes and he fights to hold back deep belly chuckles.

"You are so full of it!" Derek crows between laughs. To Stiles, he looks years younger; the joyful mirth lightens his eyes and relaxes his feathers. Small giggles find their way past Stiles lips and he joins in with the laughter. The whole situation is laughable and it feels so good.

"I am amazing," Stiles says as he regains some composure. "Just admit it!"

"Maybe just a little bit."

They both smile at one another and Stiles feels something warm stir within his chest. It feels good and Stiles holds on to it. Holding it close as it warms him and kindles his unwavering smile.

"Just a little bit," Stiles parrots.

Football draws their attention moments later, and Stiles finds himself cheering alongside Derek, for a team whose name he's not even sure of. It doesn't even matter, Derek seems to appreciate the support, and Stiles likes the company.

The beanbags last a week. Derek makes Jackson clean it up.

Senior year starts in late August, and Stiles is sure the year will suck. There is a security to high school; life is easy and drawn out in a simple structure. It's literally the only true and constant fact in Stiles' life. Funny how graduation seems so much more menacing than any monster Stiles has faced. With senior year comes SAT's and college applications.

Stiles still has time, it's only August, soon to be September, but nothing has to be addressed till at least November. In good old Stiles fashion, he chooses to ignore it for the time being. It's not hard to accomplish. Derek is proving to be a good distraction. Stiles loves looking through Derek's old albums, a last remnant of the Hale house before the fire; it's a shame he doesn't own a player to listen to them. It's an added bonus that his new couch makes for a perfect napping location as well.

He, more often than not, wakes to the smell of food. Derek is proving to be an adequate cook, graduating up from boxed spaghetti to stir-fry and baked fish. It's not the worst thing in life to have become Derek's guenie pig; Stiles stomach growls and he wonders what he'll be testing today.

Lunch ends up being lasagna with garlic buttered green beans. It probably tastes better than it should. Stiles would never have pegged Derek as the culinary genius, but he's not going to complain. His tummy is happy after all.

"You really should cook for pack meetings. Pizza is fine and all, but I could do with a steady flow of meals like this." Stiles does not mean to talk down his own cooking prowess, but with his dad's health, there is a whole lot of tofu and veggie burgers and not a lot of carbs and butter. Real butter. That low sodium margarine crap it just terrible.

"They wouldn't appreciate it," Derek says.

Stiles snorts, he can't see the pack not appreciating food. They get overjoyed like a bunch of dogs when the doorbell rings and the pizza arrives. Though, maybe, that's the point. They would appreciate the food, but not the thought and skill Derek puts into the overall meal.

"Well, they're missing out. This is to die for." Stiles hums around his fork as he takes another bite of lasagna. It's all meat and cheese and sauce; all things Stiles loves in a meal.

Derek looks pleased, and more than happily offers seconds which Stiles takes gratefully. Silence settles between them, both too intent on their meals. Stiles mind flits from thought to thought, enjoying a quiet and peaceful weekend used to be unheard of. It's nice to finally have some structure to his crazy life. The lack of supernatural threats is a real relief. With how things had been going, Stiles didn't think he'd make it to senior year, let alone college.

"Hey," Stiles says after a moment, a sudden curiosity coming to him. "We'll be graduating soon, what are the plans for college?"

"I think that's more something you should be deciding," Derek deadpans.

"Yeah, I know, but the pack… Can they even leave Beacon Hills?"

The look on Derek's face is almost nostalgic of the days when Stiles was sure Derek wanted to rip his throat out. It was the 'you're an idiot' look, but with more fondness than Stiles is used to. "I'm not going to tell them where they have to go to college. That's not my choice."

"But what about other packs?" It was a legitimate worry. Not all, if any, packs were open to strange wolves in their territory, college bound or not.

Derek just looks bored. "It's not like there are many of us left, and those packs still out there don't bother settling down in large cities. College towns especially."

It makes sense. The key to being a werewolf is secrecy and laying low. Most keep to small towns and avoid the nuisances of the city. Rural towns seem to be the hot spot for packs. A wolf's howl in the night rarely cause questioning looks. Hearing a wolf in a city might be another matter completely.

"Still, won't they be vulnerable? Or…" Derek's hand is suddenly on Stiles' knee. His jittering leg is stilled and Derek looks far too amused. Stiles just knows he's blushing.

"They'll be fine Stiles. You'll be fine. Go where ever you want; study abroad if that's what calls to you. It's fine; I know you'll always come back home. I can wait."

Stiles still isn't sure how this came to be about him. Last he remembered he was talking about the pack, specifically the ones with the furry problem. He's far too aware of the hand on his knee, it's warm and scalding. Derek's touch is both soothing and disconcerting; Stiles doesn't know if he wants it gone or to never leave at all.

The choice is taken away when Derek moves back and goes to grab their dishes. "Just don't worry about it. You still have time."

Hell, there was always that.

November comes sooner than Stiles would have liked. He's fidgety for the first few days, glaring at his SAT prep book like it's the reason his life sucks so much. And it actually is, so the looks aren't so misgiven. His dad really isn't helping matters either. Pamphlets for Harvard, Baylor, Penn State, and a slew of other universities situated on the other side of the country pop up around the house. Stiles isn't dumb, he knows what his dad is trying to do.

Saying that their relationship has smoothed over would be a lie. Stiles knows his dad doesn't approve of the werewolf thing. They came to an agreement that all things supernatural would be taken as a don't ask, don't tell sort of policy. Exceptions have been made, and maybe things don't really work out like they hoped. Stiles still lets his dad in on more than he wants, and his dad asks when he knows he doesn't want the answer. It works with them nonetheless.

"I'm not going to school on the east coast," Stiles tells him over dinner one night.

"New York might be nice. You wanted to go as a kid."

"I'm going to Berkley."

"Don't you want to see the world?"

"I'm going to the community college in the town over. I'll even be able to commute and live at home."

His dad huffs and shakes his head. "No you're not." No, Stiles isn't, but he surely isn't going to Harvard either, even if he could sneak in with his grades. Maybe.

"I'm not going to the east coast either."

The pamphlets stop showing up around the house after that. Stiles calls it a win.

The worry of college gets pushed to the side after the first week of November.

"What do you mean it's this week?"

Scott is looking sheepish, standing in front of Stiles and trying not to look him in the eye. "I just found out myself! It's not like I wanted to know, Peter just sort of let it slip… I think."

"What were you even doing with Peter?"

"Nothing! I just ran into him."

Stiles threw his hands up. He couldn't believe this. He should have known all of this months ago. It doesn't help that he has to hear it from Scott, via Peter.

"So, let me get this straight. This Thursday is Derek's birthday. Our Derek's birthday. Derek Hale's?"

"Yeah?"

That meant… Stiles did the math, coming up with only three days to get things planned and prepared. God help him. There wasn't any outcome he could think off that would make this week smooth sailing. "I need to call Lydia." If anyone can help, it's her. She's planned more than her far share of parties.

That took care of party plans, but that still left the biggest issue of all. "What the hell am I supposed to get him?"

Scott shrugs. "How should I know? Just get him beer or something for his car?"

"Beer? Really? He doesn't even drink!"

"Then don't ask me if you don't like my answers." Scott is pouting now, and Stiles still just wants to smack him. How could Scott not know when his alpha's birthday was? Couldn't he, like, smell it on him. Yes, Stiles knows he's being ridiculous, but that doesn't mean he cares.

"Okay. Okay, I need to go shopping."

A wary look crosses Scott's face and he inches closer to the door of Stiles' bedroom. "Well, good luck with that. I need to get going and—"

"Oh no you don't! You're not leaving me now. This is all your fault!"

"Dude, blame Peter, not me! I didn't even care to know."

Stiles shoots him a dirty look. "You should care," he says. It ends up making Scott look just a little bit guilty.

"Fine," Scott sighs. "But I'm still just getting him something for his car."

Stiles doesn't even bother to argue.

They've been to five stores, two malls, and Wal-Mart by the time Scott finally begins to complain. Stiles is actually surprised he lasts this long.

"Just settle on something. It's not going to matter. He'll just be happy you got him anything at all."

A small part of Stiles knows Scott is right. Derek seems overly thankful when Stiles just stops by with Starbucks from time to time. He'll probably be happy to just get a card.

"I just…" Stiles isn't sure what he's trying to prove here. He wants to get Derek something special. Something that means a little more than a last minute thought and a birthday wish. Stiles thinks Derek deserves more than that.

There must be something Scott sees on Stiles' face, because he's grumbling and pulling Stiles back to the Jeep. "Let's go look by the court house." It's the more touristy part of town with the boutiques and antique shops, but Stiles is up for trying anything at this point.

"Is there anything he likes specifically?" Scott asks.

"Yeah, I mean… He likes to cook; he's a Lakers fan; and, then all the werewolf things." Derek is a very simple sort. He's not much into pop culture, or the luxuries of life. His likes can be counted on one hand, or at least the ones he allows Stiles to know. It really only helps to make Stiles' job harder.

"He likes to cook?" Scott sounds incredulous. "Since when?"

"Since the beginning of summer." For being a werewolf, Scott sometimes fails at it; on the epic scale. "It's not like he tries to hide it. The loft smelt like rosemary for days after he made that roasted duck. Dude even I could smell it!"

"You cooked that…" Scotts voice wanes, seeming suddenly unsure of himself. "You're always cooking for your dad, so I thought—"

Stiles scoffs. "Why would I make him duck? The fat content alone would kill him."

"But Derek…" Something in Scott seems to have broken. "He cooks for you?"

"He's practicing, I'm the test subject."

"Derek cooks for you?"

"Oh my god, yes, Scott. Derek cooks for me." The Jeep pulls into an open spot along the street. Derek cooking isn't really that big of a deal. From the look Scott is giving him, it seems Stiles sentiment isn't shared.

There is a glint in Scott's eye, a thought that's just beginning to birth its way into being. Stiles doesn't like that look, in fact he hates it. Too many bad ideas have been voiced with that look. He quickly unbuckles himself and flees from the Jeep. The last thing Stiles needs is to know what ill formed notion Scott is toying with. He knows he won't want to hear it.

Scott is only a few paces behind him, smiling like he just won a prize. If Stiles disliked the previous look, well he abhors this one.

"Allison's cooked for me," Scott says as he falls into place at Stiles side.

Intelligence tells Stiles not to ask. He should ignore and keep walking. Store front windows provide a semi-functional distraction. It's really too bad Scott is just annoying enough not to ignore.

"You could say I was her test subject too."

Stiles stops abruptly. "No, just no. I'm not sure what your point is, but I know I don't want to hear it."

"But—"

"Scott! I'm here for Derek's gift. I will find it, you will help, and that will be all."

"Why is it so important to get him the perfect gift?" Scott is smiling and there is a trap here, Stiles can smell it.

He pauses, looks into a window and moves along again. Stiles wonders how long he can get away with ignoring Scott before the bastard finally says what's on his mind.

"You spent all of ten minutes buying Lydia that perfume that you think she wanted. That was last Christmas."

"And?"

Scott's grin is threatening to split his face. "And, the last time you put in this much effort to get someone a gift was when we were sophomores and you decided to buy half the store because you didn't know what Lydia would like more. And," The last word is drawn out for dramatic effect, each syllable dropping Stiles' heart into the pit of his stomach. "That was back when she was it for you."

All blood rushes from Stiles face. He can't feel any of his limbs, just the hard thudding of his heart. "What are you saying?" he asks, not even surprised when Scott just confirms his assumptions.

"Derek's it for you?" It's still said as a question, like Stiles isn't going to take the opportunity to deny it. Because, yes, Stiles does care for Derek. He loves him, he wants to make him happy. But there is a giant leap between loving someone and being in love with someone.

Being in love isn't hard to figure out. Stiles was in love with Lydia from the moment he saw her. Love isn't something the can sneak up and take you out from behind. It's not! That's not how love is. He hasn't fallen in love with Derek. He hasn't! Only, Stiles is standing there in an antique shop after hours of searching relentlessly for the perfect gift. A gift that Derek would be happy with no matter the contents. The thought brings a warm tingle to Stiles' stomach and the smile on his lips instantly slips.

"Oh my god." Stiles bangs his head on the side of an old vintage armoire. Trust Derek to be a bastard and never make anything simple on Stiles. This really wasn't supposed to happen, and it's really not going to happen. Derek is great, but the idea of a future together as a… Couple, well it just seems a little off kilter. It doesn't add up to the plan Stiles had for himself; A nice wife (Lydia would have been preferred), two-point-five kids, and a mortgage.

Scott is laughing to himself in a corner of the store; Stiles gestures obscenely to him. It doesn't stem the flow of giggles but it does bring Stiles' attention to the display just to the left of Scott. Inconspicuously set among books is an old, well worn, turntable. It's nothing special, not outwardly, but the moment Stiles sees it he knows. That's it, that's the perfect present right there.

He hurries over and kneels to inspect it, and the stack of records he notices to the side. The player seems to be in good shape, the needle is intact, and the cord isn't frayed. "fifty bucks," Stiles says as he reads the price tag.

"Have you been looking for one?" Scott asks, sober and curious.

"Not for me."

"For Derek?"

Stiles nods but doesn't say anymore. It's not his to tell. Derek gave Stiles that little look into his life before the fire; A look into his family. Stiles wasn't going to share that with anyone.

Each record is examined, and Stiles ends up picking out three. One of Doris Day, a Rush album, and a collection of Beethoven are put to the side. He's beaming as he brings them up to the counter to pay. Scott still looks confused, but doesn't question Stiles further.

"You're so head over heels for him," Scott says the moment they are out of the store. "You're practically glowing."

Stiles elbows him in the side as best as anyone could with their arms full. "Shut up!" he says, but doesn't bother disagreeing with Scott. What point could there be in denying it? Stiles is screwed either way. Pun, unfortunately, not intended.

Derek's party sees Stiles sticking to himself. His present is messily wrapped by the television and he makes a point to ignore it and Derek altogether. The more time he spends with Derek, the more Stiles is able to pick up on the small quirks in his behavior once set aside for Lydia. It's smoother, more natural than it had been with her, but there is still no denying it. Thinking about it just makes it worse, and Stiles finds himself thinking about it whenever Derek is within spitting distance. So Stiles does the only thing he can; he avoids Derek like the plague.

The party turns out to be nice. Lydia did a wonderful job, not that anyone is surprised. Balloons, grey and red, are hung strategically around the loft, and there is a three tiered cake on the small kitchen table. It's covered in an off-white fondant with grey harlequin piped icing and red accents at intersecting points. Stiles almost laughs as he sees the round white chocolate moon at the top and the rather cute black wolf with red eyes positioned to howl next to it.

When he asks about the cake to Lydia, she just smiles and shrugs. "I thought you might like it," she says. And he does, until she informs him the cake is vanilla with a strawberry cream filling, Derek's preferred flavors. Chocolate is really the only way to go with cakes. Stiles hopes Derek will one day understand this.

Talking to Isaac seems to be the best course of action for avoiding Derek. Isaac has always been a little more in tune to peoples' emotions, and he seems to catch on to Stiles' tactics quickly enough. More than once he catches Stiles by the wrist and pulls him away from whatever Stiles is doing moments before Derek shows up. It's not something they can get away with for long, the loft really isn't all that big, but Stiles appreciates the help. He always knew he liked Isaac for a reason.

They find themselves in the kitchen, looking over the cake and Stiles breaks off a piece of the moon. It's sweet and smooth, but a little too rich for his liking. "And here they say it's made of cheese."

Isaac huffs and smiles. "If it were made of cheese we'd be mice," he says.

"were-mice? No, just no." Nothing about that is appealing.

Neither of them speak for a moment. Isaac takes the time to steal himself a piece of the moon, smiling down at the little fondant alpha as he does so. "Did you two have a fight?"

Stiles startles at the question. In hindsight he should have known it was coming. "No," he says. It would be easier if they had a fight. Then Stiles can brush it off and not have to feel guilty as Derek sends him worried looks from across the room.

The answer seems to confuse Isaac. His brows scrunch in the cute way they do, and Stiles tries to fight the urge to ruffle the top of Isaac's head. "Then why are you—"

"Because!" Stiles interrupts him. "It's Derek, and I just can't. I can't!"

Someone laughs in the background, and a growl follows shortly after. It catches both their attentions for a moment. "Will you just hurry up and open it," Lydia yells, her voice impatient.

"We should go back in." Stiles is trying to make his way towards the kitchen entry, hoping Isaac with brush his outburst off and ignore it.

"Stiles." Isaac holds him back.

It works for all of a second. Stiles freezes, and steps back. Isaac must see something in the way Stiles looks at him because he's quickly moving to the side to let Stiles through. Everything happens too easily; Isaac usually puts up more of a fight if he's concerned.

It takes Stiles running face first into Derek to see where he went wrong. Isaac makes a quick excuse and leaves in a hurry. The jerk, Stiles curses him and plans to make plans. Evil, vengeful, plans.

"Sorry," Stiles mutters and he pushes himself away from Derek. "I didn't see y—"

He bites back the words. Derek is looking down at him with a foreign expression on his face, like he can't quite figure Stiles out. Now, the expression itself isn't so odd, but the amount of emotion in it is. It makes Stiles take a quick three steps back.

Derek is quick, grabbing Stiles by his bicep and pulling him close. Not close enough to be touching like they had, but close enough to cause some color to flood Stiles' cheeks.

"What are you…?"

"How did you know?" Derek says.

Stiles feels confused and a little vulnerable. He's not sure what is going on or what Derek is wanting. The living room has gone quiet as well, and it just make Stiles' body tense and on alert. He tries to peer around Derek, and catches the pack circling around something on the coffee table. The ugly green wrapping paper gives it away, and Stiles can make out the oak corners of the record player.

"Oh," Stiles says, it's all he can say.

Derek doesn't seem willing to voice more than he already has, but Stiles can see the gratitude in Derek's eyes. Somehow Stiles allows himself to be drawn into an awkward hug. "Thank you," Derek whispers into Stiles ear. Warmth fills Stiles, making him swell with pride. He allows himself to hug Derek back and knows that this feeling isn't going to be going away.

Stiles is in love with Derek Hale. It doesn't sound so bad. He might even like the ring of it.

Christmas seems just around the corner and Stiles sits amongst a stack of papers and brochures. They are all splayed out on the loft's floor, divided into piles that seemed sensible in the beginning. Now Stiles has lost track of which pile meant what.

He looks over the papers Berkley sent him. As universities go, it probably was his best choice. It was close to home and it sort of had what Stiles was looking for. It would be wise to go there, it really would, but to Stiles it didn't feel right.

"I'm never going to figure this out!" The papers go flying towards a haphazard pile and Stiles falls back on the floor. Everyone has more or less given Stiles the green light to go as far as he wishes. If Oxford was his choice, Stiles could see his dad being the first one pushing him to go. The scary truth was many of the schools Stiles has looked into are in Great Britain. He's since trashed those.

A boot nudges at Stiles' side and he looks up into Derek's amused face. "You're making this difficult," Derek says. He picks up a few brochures and sits himself down next to Stiles. They are shifted through and placed in neat piles; it's a much better system than what Stiles had going on.

"You know how many schools in the US have degrees in folklore? Much less international folklore heavily based in the supernatural? And do you know how many of those are within a day's drive of Beacon Hills? None!" Stiles gets a smack to the forehead. He grumbles and turns over because he can't allow Derek to be making these decisions for him, lest he wants to end up on the next flight to England for a campus tour.

A brochure gets thrown into Stiles lap. It's one of the ones that has caught Stiles' eye, but the distance alone is enough to say no. "University of Oregon," Derek says. "Has an under-graduate program in folklore and a Master's program. Not to mention we have a good relationship with the pack in the northern part of the state. They'll be close, but not so close that you'll have to worry about werewolf politics."

Stiles groans. "They just developed a criminal justice program as well," he grudgingly admits like it's a bad thing.

"It's where you want to go."

It is, it really, really is. That's the horrible truth of it all. "Derek." Stiles rolls to the side and pushes himself up to sit. "It's too far."

"It's just a state up." Derek is wearing nothing by sweatpants and a thin t-shirt. Stiles tries to distract himself by focusing on Derek, noting how at ease he's become over the years. He looks so normal sitting there, just like that. It's a sight Stiles doesn't want to give up. Perhaps it's spoiled him, being able to come here whenever he pleased. The thought of not having Derek there, well it frightens Stiles.

"I'm going to Berkley," Stiles says suddenly. He's all smiles like this is the right choice, the best one. There is no lying to Derek, so Stiles doesn't voice what he's thinking. Stiles says he's going, so he will go.

Derek doesn't look pleased, but he doesn't argue it either. Derek huffs and pulls together the information on applying and hands it over to Stiles. "Get that filled out." Something close to disappointment coats Derek's words and it unsettles Stiles. He's not sure what he might have done wrong. It worries him in ways it shouldn't and Stiles can only meekly nod.

Regret for his choice wells up, and he has to force it down. He won't call out to Derek as he walks back into the kitchen. Stiles will not change his mind. Berkley is the best choice. And, maybe, if he says it enough he'll begin to believe it himself.

The acceptance letter to Berkley comes in on February tenth. Coincidently his acceptance letter to the University of Oregon comes the day before with promises of a full ride. Stiles can only stare at the piece of paper. His dad is peering over Stiles' shoulder looking proud, and Stiles can only feel his stomach sink and turn.

"Good for you," John says, and pats his son on the back.

"But I didn't apply here!" Stiles flaps the papers around.

His dad looks confused. "You had to. It's not like they send those out by mistake."

"But, I—" Stiles trails off in a frustrated scream. He had thought he was past all of this. The University of Oregon is, or was, behind him. It's only supposed to be Berkley. Nothing else!

Stiles turns on his father, looking serious. "You didn't apply behind my back?" he has to know the truth. There were only two people who knew Stiles wanted to apply to Oregon. Only two, his dad being one of them.

John shakes his head and looks un-amused by the whole thing. "Just be happy you got in and that they want to pay for you."

That only left one person. Stiles turns on his heal and marches right out of the house. The drive to Derek's loft is quick and Stiles thinks he might have broken a few laws in the process. When he arrives, the door is open and Stiles pushes inside without bothering to knock.

"Derek!" he yells. "What the hell? This wasn't funny!" Stiles is waving the papers around when Derek descends the spiral staircase. He looks too much like a prince from a Disney fairy tale that Stiles has to school his features to keep from laughing.

The pleased look on Derek's face tells Stiles all he needs to know. This is in no way a mistake or a product of temporary insanity on Stiles' part. This is all Derek's doing.

"You bastard!"

"I assume you got in?"

"I hate you!"

Derek smirks. "Got the scholarship too?"

Stiles throws the papers into Derek's face. "I'm not going. You can't make me," he threatens.

"But you want to go."

"I don't… That has nothing to do with it."

"It has everything to do with it," Derek says. "This is your future. Don't throw away your opportunities for our sake."

Stiles calms himself. He's still scowling, but his face isn't red with rage. "I'm not."

Heavy hands fall to Stiles' shoulders. Derek rubs at them in tender circles, and there is a smile pulling at his lips. Stiles has to look away. He will never admit it, but Derek was made to smile.

"I want you to go Stiles. I want this for you." Derek's voice is quiet and soothing. It draws Stiles in and he deflates fully under Derek's touch. "I want you to be happy."

When did Derek begin to care about Stiles' happiness? He guesses it was around the time Derek started cooking. Maybe. "And if I say I'd be happier here?"

"For now, maybe, but in the long run you'll regret it." Derek sounds so sure that Stiles doesn't bother to argue.

"I can't."

Derek looks ready to lose his patience, but he breathes in deep and looks Stiles square in the eye. "This isn't forever. I'm not saying you can't come home for every holiday and that nobody can come up to visit. I'm just a phone call away. One call, and I'll be there."

Stiles just nods. "I'm going to call you twice a day," he threatens. Giving in seems so easy at this point. Deep down Stiles knows this is what he wants. Oregon might be farther than he is willing to go, but it's close enough to allow himself to give in. Derek is right, Stiles can't let this opportunity slip by. He'll never forgive himself if he does.

"I wouldn't expect any less." Derek is smiling again, his grip firm on Stiles. He moves closer, and for a second Stiles thinks he'll be hugged. But Derek pushes back and lets Stiles go. The touch is instantly missed and Stiles shakes himself free of the loss left behind.

"So," Stiles says after a moment. "I'm going to Oregon?"

"You're going to Oregon."

This time Stiles doesn't allow himself to think or for Derek to pull back. He's so happy in that moment that he rushes across the remaining space between them and wraps Derek up in a hug. Stiles half expects Derek to stiffen, but it's Stiles who starts in surprise as Derek immediately returns the gesture.

Derek hugs with a tender strength that has Stiles melting into the strong hold. It's intimate but friendly, nothing too out of place. This is something Stiles wants to hold on to, and something he knows he can never have. So he pulls away before things get awkward and Derek slowly detangles his arms.

There is a tension in the air that Stiles cannot give name too, so he brushes it off and collects the papers that have scattered across the loft's floor. He folds them neatly and tucks them into his back pocket. That night Derek makes him a peppercorn crusted rib-eye to celebrate.

When Stiles receives his Berkley acceptance the next morning, he tosses it into the shredder and never looks back.

Graduation comes and goes. Stiles makes sure to shove his diploma in any willing face. It's the paper copy of years of torture and proof that he really did make it past high school alive. Junior year really had him doubting his life expectancy there for a bit. But all in all he came out of it okay. Only a few scars, with minimal hospital visits.

His dad seems the most exuberant. He pats Stiles on the back and smiles from ear to ear. The hug between them is tight and fierce. "I'm so proud of you." Stiles tries not to cry. The words are not something he thinks he deserves or that he ever expects to hear. But there they are, laced with such love and joy. Stiles bundles them close to his heart, wraps them tightly around and never lets go. He's not sure if he'll ever be graced with such praise again, nor will Stiles ever expect it. Not with a stained record such as his.

They throw a party in what was once the back lawn of the Hale house. It's picturesque and perfect, the charred remains of the house long since hauled off. Stiles knows they have Allison and Lydia to thank for it. The girls spent the better half of the week lugging boxes of lighting and decorations to the sight. Derek was less than thrilled, spending more time hidden away in Stiles' room. If the rumors were true, and Stiles could actually believe this one, Lydia had chased Derek off, with a citronella tiki torch, when he had tried to regain control of the mayhem the girls were causing.

Now it seems as if a calm has taken hold. The lawn is bright with strands of lights and torches. It's breath taking and Stiles allows himself to relax; his back reclined against the back of an Adirondack chair with a vanilla coke in hand. The time crawls towards midnight. People have already begun to dwindle bit by it. John left a little while ago, making Stiles promising to be home tomorrow before noon. It might be summer, but there are still chores to be done.

"Finally winding down?"

"Mhm…" Stiles murmurs, looking up at Derek. He hasn't seen him most of the night, everyone too busy with their own families, and fending off the congratulating handshakes and hugs. Stiles caught glimpses of Derek, hiding out beneath a large oak; him and Boyd talking in hushed tones. At one point he's sure his dad catches some one-on-one time with Derek. Stiles can't be sure what they talk about, but there are smiles and a good firm handshake between them. That can count for a discussion well had.

Silence falls between them, nothing awkward, just a mutual need for a length of calm pondering. "Two months," Stiles says, after a moment. "Two months of nothing." There is a smile pressing his lips and his shining eyes roll over to regard Derek.

"How will we manage? You bored for two months?" Derek elbows him playfully. It's swatted away in a swarm of limbs; Stiles falls from the chair soon after with a squawk. The grass is soft and cool, cushioning the fall, but it does little to alleviate the glare Stiles throws over his shoulder.

Derek smiles wide, all white teeth and fangs; eyes flash red and Stiles melts with an exasperated chuckle. "How will I be bored when you're around to amuse me?" Stiles stands and brushes away dew and grass. He can feel eyes trained on ever movement. The weight of the stare feels almost comforting, and for a small moment Stiles drowns in having Derek's attention so intently upon his person. For now he can have it; two months and Stiles will take all the moments he can tear away for himself. These little pockets of time when it's just him and Derek.

A small slip of a smile forms on Stiles lips. He turns, and Derek's eyes fall to the side, the grass seemingly more interesting. "You won't have to worry about me for long. I'll be out of your hair soon enough," Stiles says. "Just two more months."

Hazel eyes flash red and Stiles gleans Derek's attention once more. They settle into another lull. Stiles sits back into the Adirondack chair, and Derek lowers himself to grass beside him.

"Two months," Derek whispers.

Stiles takes a sip of his coke. "Two months," he repeats like a promise.

Two months fly by in days of warmth and good natured fun. The pack takes a trip up to up to Shasta Lake, camping out along the water's edge and roasting marshmallows. It's the week before Stiles is to leave, making the trip far more significant than it ought to have been. In the air floats a sad unease, and if the werewolves of the group press against Stiles, scenting him, more furiously than ever, no one says a word.

Derek is oddly distant, something Stiles notices more and more as August grew closer. It's now the weekend before the start of the month, and the blaring distance seems so loud and ill shadowed. No one else seems to notice, or they just don't bother to comment. Stiles is forced to sit on the subject, not feeling the bravado to broach it. Shame, it seems, that they would find themselves here so close to Stiles leaving. The thought makes his heart ache; new love is far too fragile, especially one made unrequited as this one seems to be.

The last night of the trip is spent in what seems to be false cheer. Stiles smiles as much as he can. Scott presses close to one side, Lydia on his other. Summer makes the night air hot, even with a cool breeze floating from the lake. The extra heat of bodies against Stiles' own should make him sweat, but the burn of another's body seems to be a welcome relief.

One by one everyone retires to their tents until it is Scott and Stiles; Derek might still be about, but Stiles does not, cannot, allow himself to keep too close an eye on him. Such reasoning on Stiles' part leaves him open for a start when Derek comes up behind him. He stands there looking lost, just staring at Stiles like Derek can force his own meaning upon him. Stiles watches as Derek's attention suddenly snaps to Scott. The determined set of Derek's shoulders fall and he grunts goodnight, or so Stiles can fathom.

Derek exits to the tent he's sharing with Isaac, retreating with an allusion of gloom about him. Scott and Stiles share a look, Stiles shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head. Who can ever tell what Derek means with his actions. A voice in Stiles' head tells him that he doesn't care.

The voice is near screaming by the time August 15th is upon them. The semester does not begin until the 22nd, but orientation starts early, and Stiles knows it will take some time to acclimate to his new surroundings. Derek hasn't shown his face in days. Scott talks of him sulking around the loft, more volatile than Derek has been in a long while. Apparently Derek has shut his door as the pack hang-out spot. Stiles has even tried to visit despite his better judgment. It is no shock to find the place empty and void; the still hot mug of coffee speaks volumes. Derek is avoiding Stiles to the point of unabashed silliness.

To say that it is a shock to see Derek on Stiles' lawn is an understatement. There is only an hour to spare before Stiles should be on the road. From Beacon Hills to Eugene, Oregon is a good five hour drive. Not much time to spare if Stiles wishes to get their before night fall.

"You're leaving?" Derek asks.

Stiles can't help to scoff. "That's all you have to say?" The words are biting but not unwarranted.

"You're leaving." That's an answer to so much. Derek looks torn, and Stiles thinks he might understand just a little bit.

A little anger falls from Stiles, his fist unclenching and body falling limp. "No," he says. "No, no." Shaking his head Stiles walks across the fresh cut grass. He's only faintly aware that his dad is in the garage and Scott is helping to load boxes into the jeep. They have to be keenly watching, Stiles knows them far to well not to think they are eavesdropping.

After a moment Stiles deflates completely is a whoosh of air. Derek is still standing there without a word on his tongue. He looks slightly lost, as if he has no knowledge of coming here. Stiles thinks perhaps he finally understands a bit.

"I'll be back." Stiles moves to stand in front of Derek, closer than they have stood in a good many days. "This isn't forever. Think of it as a break. I'm sure you'll love the silence." Derek has lost a good many people in his life. Stiles refuses to add to that list. He wishes that he might touch Derek, give him a reassuring hug if nothing else. Yet the distance between them has grown so massive; funny what only a little time can do. Stiles' heart breaks, he is pack and nothing else. What ever this is, Derek's reluctance to let Stiles go, can only be an alpha mourning the loss of one of his pack. Not matter how temporarily it may be.

Chirping birds flutter by and Derek jumps. Stiles tries not to laugh, but he's sure Derek has never been more tense. Every inch, shoulder to foot, is wrapped up tight. He looks like a cat ready to pounce; the thought is so juxtaposed to the reality of what Derek is that Stiles folds in on himself and laughs. The only uncertainty is whether Derek will bolt in the opposite direction or if he plans to kidnap Stiles and keep him here one way or another.

The reality of the situation turns out to be all the more shocking. Derek moves in one fluid motion. Lips, warm and soft, hit against the corner of Stiles' mouth. There is nothing tender in the action. It's all hard pressure and urgency. When Derek pulls back he looks too much like trembling prey, so far removed from the predator that he is. Stiles would have laughed if he could, but this is not the moment for it.

Derek opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. Nothing comes, tongue dry and mute. Instead he turns and walks back down the road. Stiles only watches, not sure what to think of the situation. Derek has kissed him. He feels like there should be fireworks, something. But, there is nothing but an empty pit to his stomach. It's all bittersweet, and a little too late, Stiles thinks.

There is nothing to tell Stiles that he should hope for more than what was just given. A kiss is not a love declaration, especially one given in such an unexpected fashion. Whatever the hell Derek was thinking is a mystery to Stiles. The truth of the matter is, the action was entirely unwanted. This will weigh so heavily upon his shoulders that Stiles knows he will think of nothing else the whole right up to Oregon.

"Damn you," Stiles curses. He kicks at the grass. Scott and his father say nothing when he wanders back up towards the garage. John looks like he might want to comment, but the look on Stiles face seems to quell the urge.

Love is a strange thing, Stiles thinks as he pulls away from the house an hour later. Despite the hurt, his mouth still tingles right where Derek had kissed him. He doesn't let himself dwell on it, but perhaps Stiles feels a little bit more hope than he allows himself to believe.

After all, what reason does Derek have to kiss a lanky, awkward, loud mouth kid? There is reason behind it, and that, maybe, is what can give hope.

**6.**

It's a month into the first semester, Stiles classes are killing him, even if they are enjoyable, and his roommate is tolerable at best. If Stiles is kept out of his room one more night this week because of 'sexy time' he's going to have to find a place to hide a body.

"Dude, I slept in my Jeep last night! It was either that or listen to the mating rituals of the not so majestic jock." Stiles voice is dripping with sarcasm. It's unfortunate that Scott can't see his face through the phone. He is so done, beyond done; Stiles is on another planet of done.

Scott is trying to hold back a laugh. Stiles can pick out the little choked intakes of breath that give him away. "At least your not holding yourself up in your room and being antisocial."

"Thanks for the support."

This time Scott really does laugh. "Find yourself a _friend_, and repay the favor." The stress put on 'friend' does not go unnoticed. It would be so much easier if Stiles could find himself a girlfriend, or boyfriend, but he can't. What ever hope he left home with, it's still there and not dissipating in the least. The fact that he hasn't heard from Derek in the month and a week that he's been gone, has not dampened Stiles at all. So much for calling twice a day.

"Never had much luck in that department," Stiles says and leaves it at that. "How goes classes?"

That effectively keeps Scott talking about his Social Psychology class for the next ten minutes. Or, that is until Scott brings up the taboo topic of the month, maybe year, Stiles isn't sure at this point. "Derek hasn't been around much. Which isn't too weird, but Isaac says he doesn't come home some nights."

"And?" Where Scott was going with this is beyond Stiles' knowledge. He doesn't care, really he doesn't.

There isn't an answer for some time, Scott fumbles the phone and the distinct sounds of a plastic bag opening filters through. "I don't know; I thought you would know something… you and Derek were getting chummy after you left." A crunch of a chip and Scott continues, "the bean bags are gone." It's said like that's the real issue here. Stiles somehow doubts that. That would be the fourth pair they've gone through.

Stiles huffs. "I still don't see how I'd know. I'm not his keeper. Derek is a grown werewolf completely capable of doing grown werewolf things without out having to ask for permission to do said grown werewolf things." And this would be a perfect time for a change in topic. "Have you heard fr-"

"Stiles…" Scott's tone is sharp but not hard, it catches Stiles off guard. "Dude, I really don't want to push this, but… what's going on?" Ha! Wouldn't Stiles love to know that as well. "You and Derek… what's up there? I feel like I'm dealing with my parents divorce all over again; I hate trying to tiptoe around both of you."

"I don't know what you m-"

"Bullshit!" This time Scott yells and there might even be the edge of a growl there. "Did y'all have a fight? Is this about you leaving, because if Derek has issues about you leaving then he can answer to me…"

It was almost laughable. If only Scott knew; it was so much more complicated than that. "There's nothing you can do Scott. Just drop it; it's not worth it. Trust me."

Scott is back to munching noisily on chips. It sounds almost angry, but he doesn't pursue the argument, which Stiles is happy for. Instead they focus on classes, majors, and professors. Scott still hasn't made up his mind and Stiles thinks one of his professors, Dr. Cunningham, is a little too exocentric for his own good. The professor teaches Introduction to Germanic Folklore, and Stiles is pretty sure that he's living the guys wet dream.

The conversation stays neutral from that point on and both Stiles and Scott part on good terms. Class begins early tomorrow and Stiles finds himself sitting in his Intro to Germanic Folklore with a double shot caramel macchiato and a list of notes that are complete bullshit. As much as Stiles thought he would enjoy folklore, he's finding it to be a never ending pile of bullshit, mainly where werewolves are concerned. Trying to explain why you know that werewolves are free to shift outside of the moon's influence is a delicate task. It would be better to sit silently and not open his mouth. Stiles, unfortunately, never knows what's good for him. His hand is in the air before he can think properly.

"What's to say that the shift is exclusive to the full moon? The moon might force a shift, but… theoretically couldn't an individual perform a shift of their own free will?" All eyes in the class are on him now. Dr. Cunningham looks pleased at least.

"That would be an interesting question to ask." Dr. Cunningham smiles and looks wistful. "The lore varies so much, and it has evolved over time. There really is no telling… I would think they would be more human than animal, not taking up many of the characteristics we equate with the wolf. Therefore keeping to moon induced transformation."

And there goes Stiles' hand again. "But packs…"

The class shushes him, all thirty of them. It's a small group, something that Stiles enjoys. Everything is a little more intimate, and Dr. Cunningham proves this by kindly inviting Stiles to stay after class to further discuss his point if he so desires. Stiles does so desire; despite the inconstancy of information, there is truth wrapped within. Not to mention, Stiles has seen Dr. Cunningham's library. It's a plethora of resources and information Stiles would love to get his hands on… just in case. He never knows when something could come creeping in. So far it's been silent, and eerily quiet on the full moons. It's a nice change to the constant running for his life Stiles participated in during high school. Knock on wood, he hopes this will be a rather boring college experience.

Midterms are rolling around with the promise of Thanksgiving to follow. Stiles is hunched over a table in Dr. Cunningham's office looking over books depicting the Nachtkrapp, a giant raven like creature used to scare children. Another boogieman like creature, every culture has them. Stiles has a ten page paper on the creature due by the end of the week.

It is only natural that the supernatural cluster-fuck that was his life would rear its ugly head now. Quite by chance, Stiles' eyes stray to his professor's desk and the copy of that morning's paper. The headline is enough to catch Stiles' full attention.

**Fourth Body Found in Vampiric Murders**

While Derek has assured Stiles, numerous times, that vampires are not a thing, he still can't help but laugh at the irony behind it all. If this is caused by actual vampires Stiles is so done. He draws the line at blood sucking corpses.

Doing a little side research, since Stiles isn't even close to finishing his essay, he finds that all the victims had their throats torn and were missing about three fourths of their blood. Not having much to go on where vampires are concerned, Stiles takes to the streets. Most of the murders took place near the park situated on the south side of campus. The fact it took Stiles four murders in to realize this was happening is testament to his focus on school work. Both Derek and his dad should be proud, well if Derek ever bothers to call.

Four hours later, a little past midnight, finds Stiles hanging on for his life from the back of the demon horse from hell. The animal is sickly looking, emaciated with dead white eyes. Its mane is grease slick, making it all the harder for Stiles to keep hold of. The thing's teeth are the most unsettling, sharp and yellowed, hidden behind gore stained whiskered lips. Stiles has no idea what it is, and as he's being abducted across campus, he can't help but wish he had called Derek.

They are passing the English Department building when Stiles catches sight of a poor soul making their way from the building. It's a split second of movement, or the ceasing of such, that Stiles finds himself being launched from the creatures back and colliding with the poor sap.

The landing wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been, thanks to the unwilling body bracing the fall. The individual under Stiles moans and curses, and shit, Stiles' knows that voice.

"Dr. Cunningham?" Of course it would be his professor.

The man looks confused and wary. "Stiles… what are you…." He trails off as his eyes travel past Stiles' shoulder to the neighing creature lurking under a street lamp. The neighing pitches, turning distorted and harsh until it's not even neighing at all. When did horses begin to growl?

Stiles turns slowly, eyes widening when he sees the horse turned dog bearing rotten yellow teeth at them. The creature is just as emaciated, fur stuck together in grime. "Shit, shit, shit… go, go, go!" They are on their feet before Stiles knows, and he is pushing his professor along with the thing quick at their heals. At this point Stiles is even more confused as to what they are dealing with. If it had stayed a horse, Stiles might have guessed kelpie, but this? Well, Stiles has no fucking clue.

They veer into the Fine Art's court yard, hiding behind an obnoxious sculpture. "What… what the hell is that!" Dr. Cunningham is shaking behind Stiles, but his eyes are wide with amazement. "It was a horse… then it…"

"Yeah," Stiles whispers, licking his dry lips. "Welcome to the madness. You might want to rethink the whole folklore thing… not really lore… except vampires." Stiles is very pleased this continued to uphold the no vampire rule.

The creature is sniffing around yards away, and Stiles knows it's only a matter of time before they are found. The pack can sniff him out in a heartbeat; Stiles doubts this is much different. He has nothing to use as protection, he dropped his mace back at the park. They are pretty much shit out luck, unless one of these buildings in unlocked. Their chances don't look good.

"Is this what's been… those poor girls?"

Stiles nods. "Vicious pony-dog, goes for the throat."

"Ah!" Dr. Cunningham's eyes light up, he looks far too delighted for a man about to be eaten. "I know what it is!"

"Yo-" The growl sounds far to close, and Stiles jumps to stare into the white eyes of the disgusting thing. It's now close enough to touch, and Stiles really should have gotten over himself and called Derek. Now he was going to most certainly die a virgin. A second growl sounds from behind them. Fuck this, Stiles thinks. There has to be two of them, always two.

Stiles chances a glance behind him. Moving into the light is a wolf, black and thick, larger than any wolf has any right to be. Its eyes burn a brilliant crimson and the sight makes Stiles grin like a loon. The wolf leaps, tackling the creature without mercy.

"There's two!"

Stiles laughs and pulls Dr. Cunningham over to the Fine Art's building. They press against the brick siding, keeping out of the way. "Nah, that's just Derek." Which brings Stiles to wonder why Derek is here, but really he's not one to complain. He likes living after all. Don't misunderstand, there will be words to be had, harsh, scathing words. For now, Stiles is happy with his luck.

"Derek?" Dr. Cunningham looks far too confused.

"Yes, werewolf… but more importantly, you said you knew what that thing is." The longer Stiles watches the two wolves fight, or perhaps the thing was more dog than wolf, he can see that the dog-thing is virtually unphased by each deadly pass of Derek's claws through its flesh.. If this kept up, Derek was going to tire himself out, sooner rather than later.

"It's a Aufhocker."

"A what?"

"Aufhocker. It's a German shapeshifter, often confused for a vampire because of the…" With shaking hands, Dr. Cunningham mimed his throat being bitten out. "They aren't too common in lore, but…"

Some of the excitement died in Dr. Cunningham's face, making Stiles' nerves reawaking to their full glory. "But what, Dr. Cun-"

"Call me Stephen."

Really! Now wasn't the time for formalities. "Stephen," Stiles corrects. "But what!?"

Stephen looks unsure. "Well… from what I've read, you can't kill them."

"What!" Stiles turns just in time to see Derek take a nasty slash across the chest. "Derek!" The alpha is down, blood oozing in thick rivulets. The Aufhocker slinks forward, all dead eyed and hungry. It looks bigger than it had, very close to Derek's enormous size. One more good hit, and Stiles knows Derek won't have much of a chance against an unkillable foe. It feels like the kanima all over again.

Thinking fast, Stiles stands and puts all his weight against the concrete monstrosity of a statue. It doesn't move at first, and it isn't until Stephen joins the plight that the artwork sways and pivots down towards the monster.

Grotesque howls do not drown out the sicken squelch of the Aufhocker popping from the force of the blow. Tar like liquid seeps from the thing, its very hair and skin liquefy into a mixture that smells far worse than raw sewage.

"Well apparently bad art is its weakness." Stiles laughs, watching as Derek stands and already beginning to heal. The wolf comes over, pushing at Stiles and scenting him. Stiles palms the wet nose away, but not before giving Derek a scratch between the ears. "You sir, have some explaining to do; not that I'm not glad you're here, but why are you here?"

Derek huffs, bumps Stiles once more with his nose, and then eyes Stephen warily. In most cases Derek can be imposing, both in human and wolf form, but the way Stephen is looking at him is all childlike wonder. Stiles is pretty sure his professor would be petting Derek at this point if given half the chance.

Clearing his throat, Stiles turns them back towards the English Department. "Any way we can head back to your office? I'd rather not have to explain all of this."

Stephen laughs, it's a little manic, but Stiles gets it.

They all have a hot cup of tea, Darjeeling, and Derek has since turned back to his normal human self, but only after having borrowed some spare clothes from Stephen. Derek looks oddly fitting in jeans and a cardigan, and Stiles thinks that glass could complete the look. He keeps that suggestion to himself.

"So, as glad as I am to have you here, what the hell?!" The stress of the situation has waned and Stiles feels rightfully pissed. "You've ignored me for a month, to what….? Stalk me from the shadows?" This was a hole new low. "I knew you were a creep, but seriously?"

"Not here Stiles…" Derek is side eyeing Dr. Cunningham.

Like hell, Stiles wants answers now. "Cut the crap, you owe me answers. After all the shit, after how you left me on my driveway, I deserve answers."

"I'll show you… but not here." The tone is sharp, but pleading. It has Stiles deflating in record time.

In a huff, Stiles falls back into a plush armchair. "Okay… Okay, not here, but later?"

"Later," Derek promises.

Stephen grills Derek and Stiles on everything they know. It's a long night spent looking over books, the collection even impressing Derek, and listening to the truths of werewolf lore. Some things even Stiles hadn't been aware of. Apparently tomatoes have the complete opposite affect of wolf's bane. That would explain the pack's obsession with pizza.

They bid each other goodbye as the sun begins to rise. Stephen has promised his resources whenever they need, and has granted Stiles a much needed extension on his paper.

Stiles is smiling as they leave the building. "We have a Giles. We officially have a fucking Giles." Did that make Stiles Buffy? If so, Derek was definitely Spike. Stiles' grin grew.

"You sure he can be trusted?" Derek, always the worrywart.

"If he can't, well… we have our ways to make someone disappear."

Derek stops and looks at Stiles in shock. If possible it makes Stiles feel even more giddy.

"I'm joking! Yes, I know we can trust him!"

They walk across campus, Stiles following Derek. He's not sure where they are going, moving out of the actual university's campus grounds and into the surrounding suburban area. The houses are old here, old but nice. Craftsman and old Victorians with wrap around porches line the streets.

It's not but four houses down that Stiles spots the Camero parked outside one of the still run down Craftsman. The house needs some work; one of the last waiting to be restored in the neighborhood. Derek stands in front of it, looking up into one of the broken windows. Outside there are supplies laid all around, tell-tale signs of renovations.

"What's this?" Stiles can't help but ask. Nothing is adding up at this point.

It's Derek's turn to smile. He digs around his pocket, finding something, and then tossing it towards Stiles. The object is small and cold in Stiles' hand. It's a key. A small, unassuming, house key… this house's key? This house's key! Stiles' eyes are blown wide.

"No! Fuck no! Did you buy a house!?"

Derek nods.

"Why did you buy a house!?"

They are standing closer now, Stiles bouncing in place, a tight bundle of nerves and excitement. The prospect of what this could mean for him, for them, is just floating out of reach; Stiles is too scared to catch it and grab hold tight.

An embarrassed flush lights Derek's cheeks and he turns to look back at the house. "Thought you'd like a place to call home and where the pack can visit. They miss you…" Derek's cheeks turn darker. "I missed you… and well…" The way Derek is fumbling is really too cute. Stiles can't help but smile, his heart swelling with joy in his chest. "Long distance relationship never really work out…"

That was all Stiles needed to hear. The month of silence all but a distant memory in the wake of the reasoning behind it. He's in Derek's arms before he realizes it. With Stiles' nose pressed deep into the skin of Derek's neck, he takes a long breath. He might not have a keen sense of smell like the wolves he runs with, but Stiles takes comfort in the warm spiced smell of Derek's scent.

"I'll take this as a good sign."

Stiles snuffles a laugh. "Yeah, it's a good sign. Although, you still have a lot of work to do." He eyes the repairs around the house. "How are you going to afford all of it? This will be a beast of a job."

"Well," Derek says. "Someone once told me, 'Craigslist that shit you dork,' and I've found that it has served me well." Derek motions to the supplies in the yard.

"All those, you got all of this on…" Stiles trails off, beaming bright and happy at Derek. He laughs, and without reservation crashes his mouth with Derek's. The kiss is hard, sloppy, wet, and nothing close to romantic. In short, it's absolutely perfect.

The house is completed by the start of the spring semester. Stiles is overly grateful, he couldn't stand another semester of sleeping in his Jeep, on Dr. Cunningham's office couch, or on the drop-cloths that were once littered around the downstairs of the house. Now there are rooms, multiple rooms, all for Stiles' picking. Derek is leading him up the drive, the yard now fully landscaped in laurels and baby's breath. Jokingly, Wolf's bane had been suggested, but Stiles got a dirty look for that particular piece of input.

Apparently Derek had a landscaper come in, finding the ad on Craigslist; Stiles thinks he might have created a monster. Still, the yard looks too nice, and a little too domestic. Stiles loves it. The exterior is painted a warm butter cream yellow with white siding and a rusted tin roof that gives character.

On the porch, Stiles sees that the bench and rocking chairs are all in place, complete with throw pillows. It's all so perfect, too perfect. Stiles knows that they'll have termites, to balance the scales. All in all, the exterior is homey and matches the renovations done to the other houses on the street.

Inside, is just as quaint. Stiles really had no idea Derek had an eye for design. In fact, Stiles is suspicious as to the hand Lydia and Allison had in the decorating. "None," they had said, like sweet little lying angels. None my ass, Stiles thought.

The walls are painted neutrals with colorful accents. Each room has it's own color scheme. Yeah, there is no way Derek did all of this himself. Not the guy that lives in an industrial loft with the minimalist decorative approach. There are candles on the mantle. Candles!

Despite having seen the house yesterday, it's a new experience seeing it finished, officially finished. No more paint cans littering the floor, and everything in it's proper place. Stiles even spares a moment to take his shoes off and place them in the basket by the door; his book bag goes on one of the hooks drilled into the wall. He might as well get into the habit.

Derek leads him up the stairs, hand in hand, passing shy smiles as they go. There are a total of five rooms in the house. One master bedroom, and four other rooms that can work as offices or bedrooms. Looking down the hall, Stiles notices that all the rooms are shut except for the door leading to master bedroom. Obviously they are headed in that direction. This is one of the rooms Stiles has not had the pleasure of viewing.

Cool grey paints the walls and the room is filled with grey and navy accents. It's masculine but classy, not something Stiles thinks he could ever pull off, but, he decides, he loves it. In the center of the room is a four-poster, black-washed oak bed. It's massive and splendid. Stiles wants nothing more than to flop down on the plush mattress. It looks so soft, and he is sure it is.

Stiles lands in a fluff of pillows and blankets; Derek is not long in following. They laugh together and roll in the sheets, Stiles finding that he's more ticklish than he'd like to admit. "Is this ours?" he asks after a moment. He doesn't want to hope, but things have been so good between him and Derek. To share a room, even if it's only here, well, Stiles would not be opposed.

"It's ours, just ours." Derek reaches forward and draws Stiles into a sweet kiss. Their lips are warm and wet together, moving with practiced ease. Stiles smiles into the kiss, biting at Derek's bottom lip before pulling away.

The grin on Stiles face if down right impish. He looks of nothing holy or good. "You do know what must be done…"

"That being?"

"New room… new bed… what sort of people would be if left it un-christened?"

"I'm guessing horrible people… although…" Derek frowns. "I'm not sure christened is the best word choice."

Stiles smiles wide, teeth flashing. "If we do it missionary…"

Derek laughs, pure and bright. His teeth are on Stiles neck between breaths. "That sounds awfully dull," he says as he nips and licks. There is a spot, just below Stiles ear, that Derek begins to suck with earnest; it releases a pleased keen from deep within Stiles' throat.

"Then feel free to spice things up." Stiles' hands are wandering up, underneath Derek's shirt. The skin is smooth and heated. Every inch is unblemished, unlike that of Stiles own skin. It's been long enough for Stiles to become comfortable with his own nudity. Derek knows every mar, every welt and taint. He's been there when they were red and raw. There is nothing more to hide.

Their shirts come off in a frenzy of kisses and bites. Stiles bites hard, leaving marks that he hopes last more than a few seconds. Derek is more careful, he dares not break the skin. A purpling bruise is forming between sucks on the curve of Stiles' shoulder. Every inch of his body feels too hot. Derek is everywhere, hands tickling paths all over Stiles' body. A thumb rubs over a pert nipple, sending Stiles hips rolling up on their own accord. He's hard in his jeans, uncomfortably so. The press of Derek's hips is a welcomed relief.

Behind the thick denim, Stiles can feel the curve and press of Derek's cock on each thrust. He's just as erect, hard, hot, and wanting. They rut together, hips rolling and pressing in sweet pleasure. It's bliss, or as close as Stiles can get before getting to the good stuff.

Trembling fingers hook into the belt loops at Derek's hips, another hand squeezing a mound of firm ass. Stiles pulls Derek in closer, pressing them tighter for more friction. "Oh god… Der-" There isn't much sensible language being passed between them, just the rustle of crisp blankets and the chorus sounds of sex.

Somewhere they eventually loose their pants, boxers following soon after. Stiles' cock is leaking pre-cum that Derek licks greedily at. It's been something of a delight for Derek. Stiles isn't sure if it's a werewolf thing of not, but he's not about to complain either way. The slide of Derek's tongue along the stiff underside of his cock has Stiles shivering. It's all too much and too good. Wet, hot heat surrounds the tip, giving a good suck as the first finger, slicked with lube, begins to push its way into Stiles.

This sensation is still new. Being violated so fully, stretched too full, is something Stiles is learning to love. The mouth around his cock keeps him distracted from the fingers pressing in and stretching him. Derek lets Stiles fuck his face as a second, then third, finger slip tightly within. They hook and rub along Stiles' inner walls, searching and seeking.

Stiles hips spasm and thrash the moment it is found. Derek presses his middle finger into Stiles' prostate, rubbing greedily as he continues to swallow around the leaking cock in his mouth. The amount of cum pooling on his tongue, tells Derek just how close Stiles is. One last suck and Derek pulls back, leaving Stiles panting and wanting beneath him.

The lose of a hot mouth and insistent fingers, leave Stiles feeing far too empty. He needs something to fill him, to make him feel whole once more. He looks Derek in the eye, cocking an eyebrow in challenge. "I really don't… have all day." An ankle hooks itself around Derek's thighs, pulling him in close to Stiles.

Without warning Stiles' hands are back on Derek, pulling and squeezing at Derek's own cock. It feels good, good enough to drown in for the rest of the night. The click of a cap draws attention back to the matter at hand. Cool lube is being drizzled like icing on the length of Derek's erection. Stiles coats it liberally, making sure to make the process easier on them both.

"Fuck me," Stiles demands the moment he lays back on the once clean bed sheets. Derek growls, pushing at Stiles, forcing him onto his stomach with his hips in the air. There is not a second between breaths, before Derek is pushing in. A cry breaks from Stiles lips, but it does not sound pained or distraught, just surprised.

"Fuck Derek… your so… god your so much…" The words don't really make much sense, but they spur Derek on. His cock is slick and aching as he pushes back into Stiles. The rhythm is nonexistent, just a senseless slapping of flesh against flesh. Moans and growls fill the room; each sound causing both men to press closer into the other. Stiles' ass is high in the air, pushing up with each downward thrust into him.

The head of Derek's cock passes beautifully over Stiles' prostate, causing electric shocks to shoot through every trembling limb. Each breath making it past their lips is growing harsher and harsher. They are getting close. Stiles can feel his orgasm, building untouched, forming deep in his gut and tightening in his balls.

Derek's hips stutter and press in and as close as they can. The pressure of Derek's knot is forming thick and full inside Stiles. It swells with each thrust as the end looms nearer and nearer. Teeth scrap at Stiles neck, clawed hands pull his shoulders to draw him back further onto the knot. It swells to its full girth, pressing on Stiles' sensitive prostate and it all ends there.

Stiles comes in spurts, coating the linens in white ribbons. Not long after Derek is coming as he continues to rut against Stiles, knot tying them tight and filling Stiles full. He can feel each burst of warmth within him as Derek is milked dry, spasms coming in small intervals with each passing second.

They collapse together on the soiled bed, breathing hard but satiated. Derek is a warm line down Stiles' back, as they lay connected at the hips. This is nice, this after sex haze. Past experience tells Stiles that they will be connected for at least another few moments. He's not the least bit bothered.

Once upon a time, Stiles would not have viewed this as his happily ever after. Settling down with a werewolf? Never on the agenda. Finding his prefect match in Derek Hale? Hell no, that prospect was once viewed as out of Stiles' league. How things came to this point? Well, Stiles surly can't comprehend what forces were at work to force this hand of fate.

Regardless, this was the last thing Stiles ever wanted and truthfully it was everything he ever needed. This was one of those happy surprises in life. And quite frankly, Stiles is rather glad things didn't turn out quite how he expected them. If anything, they turned out ten times better.

* * *

End


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